


Petrol Hearts II - Pump The Brakes

by starkind



Series: Burning Rubber, Burning Hearts [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DC Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anger Management, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Male Slash, Mile High Club, Motorcycles, NASCAR, Same-Sex Marriage, Sequel, Swearing, Tony Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 40,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Vegas, Tony and Bruce are going strong under green flag conditions.<br/>But what will happen once life starts throwing up the yellow and red flags?<br/>In the end, making it to the finish line does not always equal victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *What am I doing here? Seeking distraction from CA:CW, probably... and trying for a little less serious IronBat than my other WIP*
> 
> Okay, so: This is going to be the NASCAR boys' sequel that features these two now dealing with the joys of marriage, racing schedules, big egos - and incidents that should put their hearts and minds to the test. 
> 
> To anyone reading: Thank you - hope you enjoy :)

California, April 2014  
  
  
The large colonnade ballroom with its two-story-high ceilings was buzzing with the chatter and laughter of over 200 guests. A remastered upbeat medley of ABBA's greatest hits reverberated through the air, and people were occupying the vast dance floor; showing off their stellar or mediocre dancing skills. From the ceiling hung a huge screen, looping an endless picture stream of Tony & Bruce Stark-Wayne.

Many photos showed them sitting on a Honda in tuxedos, one picture had their ringed hands shield their faces during a kiss. In others, Tony was bracing his hands on the fuel tank and laughing perfectly carefree into the camera. Another picture had Wayne perform a so-called stoppie in front of his husband, with Tony leaning forward, up on his toes, kissing him square on his helmet.  
  
Their guests were left in the dark about the actual number of tries it had taken to get that one, perfect picture. The belated wedding photo shoot had taken place hours before the huge, even more, belated wedding party at Santa Monica beach had begun. After getting a lot of flack for their eloping stunt in Las Vegas, the newlyweds had agreed to have an official party with their respective friends and team members.

Outside of hotel Casa del Mar, the Pacific Ocean was keeping watch. James Rhodes stood on the palm terrace, sipping from his drink with a bit wistful look on his face. From where he had been overlooking the coastline for a couple of minutes, enjoying the air, footsteps approached from behind. Bruce Stark-Wayne stepped out onto the patio, blowing out his cheeks while running his hands through his hair.

As soon as he got aware of his company he morphed his features into a poker face. Rhodes toasted him with his glass and downed the rest of his Whiskey Smash cocktail. “To the grooms. Some party.” Bruce stepped closer, albeit at a safe distance, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. “Glad you approve.” A small smile followed his concise answer, to which James cocked his head and palmed his chin.  
  
“You look like you need a timeout from all the hustle and bustle.”   
  
Wayne glanced at the ocean behind him. Eventually, his shoulders formed an easy to miss shrug. “Excessive partying isn't really my style.” James Rhodes placed his empty glass aside, folded both arms, and leaned back against the balustrade. “Tony loves it. Better look out there in the future.” His tone held a subtle, challenging note. Bruce fixated him with a sharp glint in his eyes, mimicked his stance, and crossed his ankles.

“I'm willing to make an exception every now and then.” Both men continued to watch the merry celebration inside for a few moments in silence. From their vantage point, they saw Alfred Pennyworth pivoting a beautiful-looking Pepper Potts around on the dance floor as they executed a perfect quickstep to the tunes of 'Take a chance on me'. James Rhodes then cleared his throat and threw a sideways glance at his taller opposite.   
  
“Look, man, I don't want to have bad blood, far from it.”   
Their eyes met again. James forced himself to keep the other man's dissecting glare.   
“... but?”

“I've known Tony for over fifteen years now. He's my best friend, and I know when he's truly happy because that happens not often enough to my liking. And I can see he's truly happy right now after all that has happened. I just want to get one thing straight here: You hurt him, and there'll be hell to pay.” For the next few moments, Bruce Stark-Wayne continued to remain unnervingly silent.

After he had looked at James with an underwhelmed look for the longest time, his left eyebrow twitched slightly. “As unnecessary as your comment was, I appreciate its honesty. Tony can be glad to have a friend as good as you.” His succinct voice held no real, decipherable emotion. “There you are!” An exuberant outcry caused them to turn around. Tony was standing in the open terrace doors; grooving along.

The music had switched to a remix of The Archies, which boomed out loud over the surround sound system, and out onto the patio. _“Sugar, ooh honey, honey. You are my candy man... and you got me wanting you._ Dance with me, babe, c'mon.” Singing along, Tony sashayed towards his husband, hips, and shoulders swaying. When he outstretched his arm, Rhodey saw Stark's wedding band glistening in the candle-lit atmosphere.

In milliseconds, Bruce's expression morphed from slightly hostile to downright affectionate. “Coming.” He looked at Rhodes one more time. “Glad to have you on board at SW Racing, James. I mean it.” Rhodey nodded with the same seriousness but smiled when he met Tony's twinkling eyes. “Can I steal my hubby for a sec there? Our beloved-but-rhythmically-challenged Hapster is doing the Mashed Potato, and I need help.”

His and Bruce's hands met and their fingers became intertwined. James had to hide a grin at the brief, pained expression flitting across Wayne's features at the prospect of an inevitable dance off. “Go ahead, he's all yours.” It was with a bout of schadenfreude that James waved them off. He stayed outside some more and watched them launch a fairly comical dance routine to The Contours' classic 'Do you love me'.

At some point, however, James decided to join them to support Happy Hogan.   
Time to show those white boys what groove meant in the Rhodes' household.  
As it turned out, commonly perceived stuck up Bruce Wayne was actually able to do the twist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Location mentioned in this chapter: https://www.hotelcasadelmar.com/events/weddings  
> Songs mentioned in this chapter belong to their respective artists and songwriters  
> To get an idea on what a 'stoppie kiss' could look like: http://fwallpapers.com/view/stoppie-kiss


	2. Chapter 2

May 4th  Talladega Superspeedway

  
It was their tenth race together on team Stark-Wayne Racing, and so far, Bruce was still having trouble adjusting. Not just to his new car or his life as a newly married man but mostly to the new set of rules NASCAR had implemented for the current season; rules which drastically altered how the circuit operated. Qualifying now was held in a knockout style, eliminating the slowest cars after a certain amount of time on track.  
  
Furthermore, the Chase for the Sprint Cup had gotten completely revamped as well. It was now divided into four segments called the Challenger, Contender, and Eliminator Rounds, and culminated in the Sprint Cup Final Race. On top of it, racing schedules had been swapped, and penalty systems got improved. All in all, it made for an exciting new changed format to please both audiences and racing teams alike.  
  
Inwardly, Bruce had always hated changes. It meant giving up control in favor of the unknown, a concept that did not resonate well with his constant need of being in charge. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and felt the Generation-6 Chevrolet SS shudder and whine as he took a wide angle in turn four. “Stay low, stay low! Bruce!” Jim Gordon's agitated voice shook him out of his mulling thoughts.

The spotter had taken up his old job only after Bruce had reassured him that James Rhodes would not interfere with his methods and vice versa. It ultimately made both spotters' duties easier; having to focus on one driver each. Meanwhile, Lucius Fox had solely taken over Jarvis' crew chief duties during the latter's ongoing suspension. Within their new and combined team, mutual trust was still an issue after five months.

A fact everyone seemed to enjoy without complaint, however, was working under Alfred Pennyworth's command. In turn, the elder team manager profited from having the clever and versatile Pepper Potts by his side, to help with paperwork, PR, and an overall management of SW Racing. Back on the track, the Gothamite wrestled against the centrifugal force at a steady 187 mph.  
  
“I _am_ low, Jim. Where's Tony?”  
  
Another thing Bruce had not gotten used to was Tony leading the field during most races. On the one hand, Bruce liked his attitude of not holding back, just because they were married. “He's on pole. Your front splitter's partially down by the way.” On the other hand, however, there were still his ego and pride, and his general strife for success. Wayne eyed his rearview mirror as a dark green Toyota appeared up close.  
  
“Must've happened when I snogged the 13. I'll live. How many to go?”  
Before Gordon could answer him, another voice rustled over the radio.  
“You're making out with other guys in my presence? Shocking, B. Don't'cha have no shame?”

Tony's quip was met with a “Shush it now” from his husband, and a cleared throat from Jim Gordon. “Five rounds, and yeah, no use changing it now. Watch out for that 16, he's about to snatch your sixth place.” Determined not to fall behind further, Bruce squinted at the lanes in front and put his foot down. “Like hell he will.”   
  
In the end, Bruce defended his position, and victory lane celebrated Tony Stark-Wayne with glitter and a magnum bottle of champagne. “We definitely went home from the last race and made our cars better." Tony made a sweep towards his crew and simultaneously took a little bow at both Pennyworth and Fox. "That's what I'm proud of this team for. It takes really smart guys to understand what to do to take those gambles.”  
  
He looked over his shoulder to spot Bruce's sweated but proud grin in the back. With a wink, Tony then turned back around and gave a loving pat on the door of his Chevy number 19. “This team and this car are just plain awesome.” Upon getting new cars, their respective numbers now served as a silent nod to each other's date of birth. It had actually been Pepper's idea, to begin with, and Tony had loved it from the get-go.

It was only due to the redhead's magnificent means of persuasion to even convince an ever-skeptical Bruce.

* * *

At their newly refurbished pit box, the obligatory post-race meeting had discussed all important points.

“What about you, Master Bruce? Nothing to add?”  
  
Alfred's distinctive British accent prompted him to look up from where he had been silently browsing his phone for a new race exhaust system for his Honda. “Add? No.” He put the device aside, next to Tony's Starbucks cup, and leaned back. “Maybe something general, though. There's almost no drama getting the car up to speed. It's just... I feel the steering is rather weak. On center and at low speeds, it's floppy and indirect.”  
  
Five pairs of expectant eyes lay upon him at the first real input he had uttered during the whole meeting. Funnily enough, it was mechanic Happy Hogan who nodded first and pushed his base cap up higher. “Sure alright. I'll have a look at it right after the meeting if you want me to, boss.” Ignoring the peculiar look Tony cast him from the side, Bruce put up a benevolent smile. “Thanks, yeah, I'd like that.”

Once Alfred called the meeting over and everybody left, the two drivers walked side by side towards the parking lot. No sooner than the sun graced their faces, Tony slipped on a pair of Porsche sunglasses. “Floppy at low speeds? Sweetcheeks, you're not supposed to go slow here – this is NASCAR.” His teasing words were met with quick fingers snatching the Audi R8 car keys from his hand.  
  
“Shut up and get in - I'll drive.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Charlotte Motor Speedway, 25th  May 2014

  
Four days before Tony's birthday, the 400-laps Coca-Cola 600 race demanded their complete attention. Starting off around 6 pm, it was known for bringing out more drastic changes than during any other race. The SW team was working since Friday afternoon to get everything in order before race day, but the post-qualifying practice did not work out well for Bruce who had undergone a facet block procedure two days earlier.

It was an annoying little remnant from his lumbar injury back in October 2013 and caused him to be suffering from annoying back spasms right before the race. During the first 20 minutes of final practice, he eventually voiced his discomfort. “I'm coming back in, Jim. Doesn't do me any good out here right now.” Fox and Pennyworth, therefore, encouraged him to cancel off his current lap.

“You sure you're gonna make it tonight? 600 laps are no walk in the park.”

From where he was lying prone on the portable massage table, enjoying some on-site myofascial trigger point therapy, Bruce glimpsed up halfway at his husband who had gone and secured himself a good second position. “Course I am. Fuck practice – the car's as good as it is anyhow.” He hissed as the female physiotherapist hit a trigger point. Suckling on his Gatorade bottle, Tony shifted out of his squatted position.  
  
“If you survive this torture then I'm sure you'll be able to park your butt in the Chevy.”  
  
Without lifting his head, Bruce groaned into the towel and raised his arm to shoo him away.

+

For the majority of laps, the lead cycled between Tony and four other drivers. After a little over four hours and eight cautions later, two tired drivers from SW Racing made their way back into the pit box. In the end, it was one of the season's latest rookie drivers who scored his first victory of the season. Climbing out of his Chevy, Bruce was visibly in pain but content to at least have pulled through the whole 400 laps.

Even if he had only come in on position five, he put up a brave facade for the many reporters and fans. Bruce then excused himself to disappear inside the large black SW Racing hauler. Tony, who had made a good second place, stepped out in front of the microphones. “Yeah. We had a fast car all night, just kind of fumbled a bit on pit road. Got behind, got a lap down. Happens. Won't happen again. Easy as that.”

With a forced smile, Tony then excused himself and went after his husband.

* * *

Delaware, May 29th  2014

  
Tony's birthday fell on a Thursday. Despite having to prep for the upcoming race in Dover on June 1st, Bruce still made a point in organizing a surprise birthday bash at Hangar 1301, property of the Dover Air Force Base, and home to the Air Mobility Command Museum. It had taken some persuasion of the monetary and diplomatic kind to get the site booked and secured for one night; a mission Pepper Potts gladly helped to realize.  
  
She and Bruce had worked close via texting regarding everything; from finger food over to a DJ set-up, and a timely save-the-date mail. Their secrecy paid off as the man in question had no idea whatsoever once he sat in the passenger seat of Bruce's car, a brand new Chevrolet Camaro Z28 in ashen gray metallic that had been Tony's birthday present for him, back in February.

“Where are we going?”  
A blindfolded Tony turned his head to the left despite not being able to see his husband.  
“Can you stop asking the same question over and over again?”

“Once I get a decent answer and not this 'Narnia or some shit' reply, I could.”  
Sulking to himself, Tony then huffed out loud and cocked his head towards the back.  
“C'mon now, platypus. I thought _you're_ on my side at least.”

Bruce cast a glimpse through the rearview mirror at the person in the backseat.  
James Rhodes returned his glimpse and grinned.  
“I'm right behind ya, Tones. Just a couple more minutes, then we're in Narnia.”

“Oh, fuck you, too.”

Missing out on the sparse smile on his husband's face, Tony eventually started to whoop and grin when Bruce put his foot down and let the Camaro growl out under their feet. “And even if _you_ don't speak to me with words, my love, I think it's safe to say you do like your nifty little toy.” Wayne just smirked. “I do.” A pat on Tony's left thigh. “And the car's great, too.”

After ten more minutes, they stopped and Bruce turned off the engine. Opposed to being able to take off the blindfold right away, Tony had to wait and endure getting led out of his seat. Eventually, two fingers hooked left and right around his temple, under the black cloth, and pulled it off in one swift motion. “There we are.” In front of the huge hangar, Tony stopped and stared.  
  
Spotlights had been positioned left and right of the main entrance, illuminating the building in red, blue and golden hues. Square across the facade hung a gigantic banner, reading _'Happy 34_ _th_ _birthday, Loose Cannon! 17 years of flooring it, and counting'_. Lined up in front of the entrance were roughly 100 people, doing the Mexican wave upon his arrival. Erupting in a hearty laugh, Tony doubled over laughing.  
  
To the cheers of his friends and colleagues, he conducted another set of waves, before he jogged closer to start hugging and shaking hands. Frown in between his brows, Bruce turned to James Rhodes who was about to pass him by. “That's not what it was supposed to say.” He pointed at the banner. Rhodes returned what qualified as an insubordinate grin and spread his arms.

“That's exactly what it _needs_ to say – speaking from almost two decades of experience here.” His slap on the taller man's broad shoulder was met with a seething glare. “Just roll with it, man. This is his evening.” Both looked over to where Tony was just turning around, searching for them in the crowd. He made a few enthusiastic gestures for them to follow him inside, where flickering lights and booming music greeted all guests.

James moved ahead and disappeared inside. Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked over to see Pepper fall into lockstep with him. “I can tell he loves it already.” She gave a little smile that he returned. “Yeah.” Wayne then motioned for her to lead the way. As soon as everyone was inside, the chorus to Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday' started to blare up at full volume, and all guests started to sing along.  
  
Standing in the middle of a huge circle laughing, Tony sashayed over to plant a big smooch on his husband's lips, though not after smacking his chest in mock-scandalization at being outfoxed. Together, they then watched a huge rectangular cake being brought in. On top of it sat a miniaturized version of Stark's new Chevy, with a big 34 in red frosting on its roof and just as many candles lined up around the cake race track.  
  
James pushed a large knife into Tony's hand while Pepper and Bruce stood aside, equipped with plates. Tony began cutting pieces of the cake and brandished the knife around with glee. “Oh, boy! It even has a checkered flag on the inside, you guys!” Bits of frosting was all over his thumbs and goatee, and he tried to lick his fingers clean after being done. Bruce's heart ached upon seeing him so carefree and full of youthful charm.  
  
A soft, female voice from the side roused him out of his reverie. “This whole thing really was a great idea, Bruce.” Pepper nudged him with her shoulder, plate filled with cake. He pursed his lips. “Thank _you_ for putting it together.” The redhead nodded and bobbed her head along to the music. After licking her fork clean, her face morphed into a sly grin. Putting the plate aside, Pepper then brushed down the front of her dress.  
  
“Dance with me? I know now, for a fact, that Alfred taught you well. Really well. Consider it quid pro quo.”  
For the briefest of moments, Bruce looked as if he was about to decline. Then he offered her his arm.  
“Ma'am?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure the Dover Air Force Base does *not* rent out their Air Mobility Command museum. Ahh, fanfiction, how I love thee..


	4. Chapter 4

Kentucky Speedway, June 28th 2014  
  


“If I hear you yell 'This is Sparta!' over the comm one more time, I am going to wreck you. Personally.”  
“Where's your sense of humor gone, Bboy?”  
“Left out on the battlefield, Leonidas.”

The Quaker State 400 race, held at a city called Sparta, was the 17th race of the season. Less than ten races were separating all drivers from getting into the now-called Sprint Cup Chase Grid. Both Tony and Bruce were already safe to be among the 16 designated ones, due to their total wins and points. Tony had won pole with a new track record lap time of 28.603 and a speed of 188.791 mph, followed by his husband in the front row in a Stark-Wayne Racing lockout.

After a downpour, which had soaked the track prior to the race, a caution at lap 30 had made Bruce fall back to position 15 on restart.

“See? There's that. I know why I married you.”

“Really.”

“Yup. I'd even be inclined to hand you this one. If you stopped driving with the parking brake on, that is. And also, because this... _is... Sparta!”_  
  
Bruce yanked on the stick shift with more vigor than necessary and pressed his foot down. “Okay, now you're in for it!” All it elicited from Tony was a hearty laugh. “Promises, promises.” The Gothamite's Chevy number 29 howled out and went for the outside lane. With narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, Bruce then worked on bringing his car all the way up from 15th up to 2nd position.  
  
His daring flyby maneuvers soon had Jim Gordon sweating bullets and yelling out loud at him in turns. Once he sat bumper to bumper with his husband, Bruce heard Tony cackle over the comm. “If nobody was listening in, I'd go and tell you what a huge boner I just got by watching you, Mr. Sex on Wheels.” Someone over the comm groaned out loud. Careful not to spin him out, Wayne slipped out of his wake.  
  
“If you don't need your blood elsewhere than your dick, that serves me well.” A fast turn to the left, and he surged ahead of Tony's car. Using the bottom lane to gain important seconds, Bruce Stark-Wayne then crossed the finish line first for the first time in 2014. Coming in second, with a scant 1.552 seconds behind him, Tony pulled up close to run a synchronized victory lap with him.  
  
Afterward, Stark performed a sustained set of donuts all around his car, right in front of pit road, until Bruce and his Chevy were engulfed in a huge cloud of dust. High up in their box, Jim Gordon's mustache morphed into a rare, widespread grin as he gave two thumbs up at Lucius, Alfred, and James. Adjusting the dynamic mic back in front of his mouth, Gordon glimpsed down at Wayne's Chevrolet.  
  
“Heck, if it takes a lame movie quote for you to get your fangs out, I'm gonna read you the whole freaking IMDB out loud during the next race!”

* * *

After celebrating their very own double victory in private, they lay sprawled out in post-coital bliss on the bed. “I could get used to you filling my rear view mirror, you know.” Bruce's voice held a sated and uncommon lazy tone as he lay prone atop the sheets, head resting on crossed arms, looking at his lover. “Hear, hear. Only the rear view mirror?”

From where Tony's fingers had been caressing up and down his bare shoulders and back, they then went lower to prove his point. Bruce squirmed and made a halfhearted attempt to slap him away. “Crude.” A row of peppered kisses trailed along his tailbone, culminating in a final, hearty bite into his backside.

“You know you like it.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Daytona International Speedway, July 6th 2014  
  


The whole race seemed to be doomed right from the get-go. Tony was still suffering from a migraine due to heavy 4th  of July partying, and Bruce's Chevy was inexplicably leaking oil since the last race. Happy Hogan had spent the majority of the morning under the hydraulic car lift to fix the problem, but the Gothamite was stressed out about missing his test run. As it turned out, Bruce's worries should remain unfounded.  
  
Due to severe weather conditions, the first practice session was delayed for over an hour. Even if the race itself started on time, rain once more led to a delay in its early stages, until the organizers decided to postpone the whole event until the upcoming day. “Un-fucking-believable.” Bruce's voice was full of disdain as he slapped his gloves onto the table and took a seat. Nodding along, Tony put his elbows up and rubbed his temples.

“Can't believe this is what I got out of bed for this morning.”

By now, the mood at SW Racing resembled the insides of a freezer, until Alfred and Lucius decided to see their irritated and cynical drivers off for the rest of the day. Later that evening, at the hotel for the night, Tony exited the bathroom and threw himself onto his side of the bed. Bruce still sat on the edge of the mattress. He originally had wanted to shower with him but remained glued to the TV instead.

“I'm done, shower's all yours.” Without taking his eyes off the screen, the Gothamite scratched at a spot on his bare shoulder blade. “Uh-huh.” Tony rolled his eyes, which also went past unnoticed by his husband. “Oh, and I think I'm pregnant. Might have to go get a Clearblue tomorrow. I'm hoping it's a girl.” His sarcastic jibe led to some distant nodding. Then Bruce sat up straighter.

"Sure, yeah. Hey, look at this. Shows who has real balls! NASCAR can't race in the rain but bikes can." Tony followed the pointed remote control over to the television screen where a MotoGP race was being shown. A benign smile formed on his lips. "Not everybody's used to growing up in shitty-weather-Gotham-City like you, my love. I, for one, prefer racing sans rain, but that's just plain old Californian me."

With a click, Bruce turned off the TV and threw the remote onto the comforter. "Rain or no rain - NASCAR's gotten so heavy-handed with rules and specs and templates these days, the whole thing's nothing but a joke. Today was no exception." He went to hunker down in front of his set of suitcases. His reading glasses on and StarkPad in hand, Tony crossed his ankles and shot him a reprimanding look over their rim.

"A joke that pays off well, darling, if I may remind you."  
  
Bruce snorted without turning around and dug deeper for some clean shirt and underwear. "An extremely well marketed and superbly hyped joke. Proof that if you can get on TV and provide enough glitz and excitement, folks will watch just about anything. Even billboards circling a half-mile oval under a yellow flag. But I guess it's easier to read the stickers when they're going slower anyhow."

Tony spread his arms wide in exasperation. "Are you gonna be this brazen the rest of the night?" Passing him by on the way to the bathroom, Bruce bent down to kiss his disdained set of lips. "It _is_ wrestling on four wheels, and anybody who thinks it isn't rigged hasn't been watching lately." His final comment earned him a hard slap on his set of well-muscled buttocks under black boxer briefs.  
  
“Heretic. Don't make me come back in there and spank your ass in the shower.”  
A smoldering glance over the shoulder.  
“I dare you.”

* * *

Daytona International Speedway, July 7th  2014

  
After a restart on lap 13, Tony took the lead and managed to keep it until a multi-car pileup in the tri-oval happened, no 80 laps later. It ultimately led to a good amount of debris on the backstretch, and the fourth caution of the day on lap 94. “Fuck, I'm gonna be so glad to leave Daytona behind for good.” Stark's gloved fingers tapped an irritated rhythm on the steering wheel as he sat behind the pace car.  
  
“Same here. This is nothing but ridiculous.” Wayne's Chevy sat two row behind him, and Tony stole a few loving glances into his rearview mirror, despite not seeing much except for car roofs and helmets. “How bout Pizza tonight? Fratelli's?”  Bruce snorted in all of his unemotional glory. “That underwhelming little joint we've passed by yesterday?”

“Don't judge a book by its cover.”

“So much wisdom.”

“Pizza basically _is_ wisdom. So...?”

“Should we _ever_ get out of this pace car merry go round, I'll think about it.”

“Focus, boys, focus. I know this is tough, but it's tough on everyone. Okay, get ready for green flag.”  
  
Lucius Fox sounded far more stressed out than usual. His bad mood intensified when his drivers did not manage to get a good restart on lap 98.

Unable to get back to pole, Tony was stuck right in the middle of the so-called Huge One that happened on the backstretch, caused by more leftover debris and tire pieces. The mega-crash scenario involved at least 28 cars, brought out the fifth caution of the race and ended up with a spectacular crash that caused Tony Stark's car to flip and land upside down on the grass.

High up in the box, James Rhodes had sprung to his feet and tried to see something amid the chaos. “What the fuck, what the fuck! Guys? Tones?!” The spotter's agitated voice also echoed through Bruce's helmet. He had managed to dodge the brunt of the crash by a hairsbreadth and kept on casting concerned looks in his rearview mirror. “Someone just lost his fucking marbles here on track and all hell broke loose. Tony?”

Wayne sounded level-headed to the untrained ear, but it was only when his husband's rather strained reply came through the line that Bruce actually released a breath he did not know he had been holding. “Yeah, I'm here. Just... uh... havin a good old time... just hangin around...” Relief could be heard over the comm when his best friend and spotter piped in. “Alright Tones, just stay buckled up, we're gonna come and get ya.”  
  
Stark grunted in what could be passing for some kind of affirmative response.  
  
“Brain's heavy. Seeing stars. Hurry up.”

Seeing Tony's Chevy was trashed beyond belief, team SW Racing did not bother to get it fixed for the remaining 14 laps. In the end, Barry Allen from rookie team Queen Racing in his dark green Toyota Camry number 13 scored a surprising pole position, with his teammate Oliver Queen's number 16 car coming in third, right after Bruce Wayne.

 


	6. Chapter 6

NASCAR had scheduled an off weekend on the 20th of July. It gave all drivers two weeks to wind down and relax with their families and friends. After racing in New Hampshire on July 13th, Tony and Bruce made use of the mini-vacation time to steal away on Wayne's Honda, sparse belongings stuffed into one huge backpack.

With the Huge One in Daytona two weeks prior still on his mind, Bruce went slower than usual along Mount Washington Auto Road. He soon felt Tony tap his stomach two times; a sign he wanted to go faster, but Bruce kept the pace moderate. Once they had reached their destination -White Mountain National Forest- Tony tugged his helmet off. “What's with all the mother-henning? I thought we wanted to burn some rubber.”

Bruce waited until he had gotten off the pillion seat before he, too, disposed of his helmet. “I was in the mood for cruising.” Revealing dark, plastered down locks, Tony rubbed his fingers through his hair and squinted. “Oh, puh-lease. Don't gimme that.” He marched over to stand at the fencing and gaze out upon the vast, recreational area. Seconds later, Tony heard Bruce's feet crunch on gravel behind him. “Live free or die.”

Confused, the other man turned around. “Huh?” Wayne pointed his chin at a nearby wooden info board for tourists and visitors, reading aloud. “The state's motto. Taken from the Revolutionary War general John Stark. Relative of yours?” Tony shrugged and turned back around, crossing his arms atop the wooden railing. “Might have been, yeah. Who knows.” Again, footsteps erupted.

Tony closed his eyes in pleasant surprise when Bruce wrapped him in a tight hug from behind. “Try landing on your wheels next time.” Wind whipping at their hair, they stood frozen in an embrace for the longest time. Stark smirked. “Little softie.” A pinch to his right side made him twitch. Bruce growled low into his ear. “Loose cannon.” When Tony craned his neck upwards, he received a warm and sensuous kiss.

* * *

Indianapolis Motor Speedway, 27th  July 2014

  
Towards the end of a total of 160 laps, Bruce could almost taste victory. He had stayed out when the others pitted and assumed pole; leading the field to a restart on lap 128. He had also managed to hold off a hard-charging Tony with two laps remaining for the longest time; trying to make it to the finish on fuel mileage. On the homestretch, Jim Gordon tried to play the voice of reason. “You're running low there, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“This is going to get tight.”

“Don't care.”

With just over half a lap to go, his Chevy eventually ran out of fuel. It prompted Tony to take advantage and get himself another pole position while not holding back in scolding his morose husband over the comm afterward. “C'mon now, you still got a sizable lead on the rest of the field. Move your ass!” Angry at himself, Bruce said nothing, got back with what little fuel he had left, and finished second.  
  
The look on his face, post-race, told everyone, including Alfred and Lucius Fox, to not try for rationality. Several hours later found the Stark-Waynes alone, high up in the air, in one of their many private jets. Bruce had been hacking violently into his notebook for the past half an hour, ignoring both his husband and the pilot's announcements. Sitting opposite of him, Tony regarded him with fond exasperation.

“Babe...”

“I _don't_ want to talk about it!”

Bruce squinted at the screen, eyes skimming along the email he had received from the American Motorcyclist Association. He had been a member of AMA's competition plus program ever since his early twenties. Whenever his membership was about to run out, he would get a notification about an automatic renewal. Without hesitation, he confirmed his credit card information and pressed 'send'. Tony cleared his throat again.  
  
“Fair enough. But, babe...”  
Logging off, Bruce all but slammed the notebook shut.  
“I said NO!”

Stowing it away in the compartment to his left, Wayne then crossed his arms. Hazel full of ire eyes blazed into dark-brown ones until Tony blinked first and broke the stare-down. Throwing his hands up in mock-surrender, he scoffed. “Fine! Let me know when you're man enough to admit your strategy sucked beans, and you'd be better off listening to Jim the Brim next time.”

Wordless, Bruce Wayne then unbuckled from his leather seat and stood up to march over to the back of the plane. Tony craned his neck to stare past him. “Tsk. How old are you again?!” From where Bruce had dropped into the last row of seats, a one finger salute was his only answer. Stark snorted out loud. “Figured.” An hour later, Tony had to use the Cessna's lavatory.

As he passed his sullen husband, Tony's features inevitably softened at the sight of Bruce's asleep, frowning pout as he had sunken down further into the chair. Quick to fetch a blanket from a nearby seat, he draped it over him, careful not to wake him up. “Love you anyway, old grouch.” Whispering along, Tony walked back to his front-row seat and pulled out his phone and headphones.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some swearing and homophobic slurs, tagged specifically for this one

Bristol Motor Speedway, Bristol 23rd  August 2014

  
Tennessee brought up a whole lot of memories for Tony and Bruce. It also brought up an unpleasant encounter, several hours before the race, when a young boy approached them outside of their hauler. “Could I have an autograph?” Tony slid his Oliver People's shades lower to look at him. “His or mine?” Pointing his thumb at his baseball hat wearing husband who lounged atop the hauler's stairs, Tony cocked an eyebrow.  
  
The boy held up one of the many colorful, official NASCAR 2014 merchandise calendars and looked from an impassive Bruce over to Tony and back. “Both of you.” The Stark-Waynes shared an amused look before Tony wiggled his eyebrows and pushed his glasses up with his ring finger. “Wise choice, kiddo. You'll only get the real deal with both of us anyhow.” Taking the calendar, Tony put one leg up on the last step of the staircase.

Before he could add his deft signature, a burly man in his late forties appeared from behind, brushed past the child and took both items out of Tony's hand. With a stern glance at the child, he pressed them into the boy's chest. “No. We talked about this, remember? Go back to mom, Donny.” The boy who looked to be not much older than 11 put up a disappointed pout and let his calendar sink. “Okay.”

He cast a final glance over to Bruce and Tony. “Bye Mister Stark, bye Mister Wayne.” They purposely put up as good a smiling facade as they could upon waving him goodbye. Once he was out of sight and earshot, Tony shook his head with a reprimanding look. “That was a nasty thing to do.” The father looked him up and down with repulsion before repeating the same with Bruce. “Not as nasty as the two of you.”  
  
His tone prompted Wayne to stand up and push his hat higher. “What's that supposed to mean?” Two beady eyes narrowed in on him. Then the man curled his bearded mouth in disgust. “No fags racing in NASCAR back in the days.” Bruce was about to move, but then there was Tony's hand on his upper arm, holding him in place. “Leave it be.” The Gothamite snarled after the man who had started to walk away.  
  
“Go fuck yourself, okay?”  
The man stopped and turned around one more time.  
“Go burn in hell, fag. Hope you crash real good today.”  
  
This time, Tony was not fast enough to prevent Bruce from flipping the bird, using both of his arms. From the corner of his eye, Tony saw Happy Hogan noticing their peculiar situation. He gave a brief shake of the head as to avoid involving his crew, and gently forced Bruce up and inside the open hauler. “Why are you letting that idiot get to you?” Wayne glowered at him. “That redneck's not talking shit about us.”

“Oh, babe, if only you knew...” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What? Knew what?” Tony wore a sad smile. “Nothing in NASCAR stays secret. Especially no team fusion like ours”, he wiggled his gloved left hand for emphasis. “We're likely getting a lot of flack on most social media network sites. Good thing we're our own primary sponsors, or else we'd look mighty bland and less cool.”

He pointed at the pictures of their Chevys on the wall; rear and lower quarter panels adorned with their individual company logos. His husband still glared daggers at the commotion outside the open door. “They all should go mind their own fucking business, that's what.”

* * *

Once the green flag went up at Thunder Valley, the Irwin Tools Night Race made for a tedious 500 laps. Seeing the cars would go faster as the sun had gone down and the track surface had cooled off, team Stark-Wayne decided to press hard for leading positions right from the get-go. Content with their strategy, Fox then comm'd in. “A lot of lapped traffic there by now. Here's your chance, Tony.”

Stark glimpsed at his fuel pressure gauge and made up his mind.  
“Sure thing, Lou, I'm coming in for splash-and-go.”  
A quick pit stop with fuel only later, he was gone again in a cloud of dust and rubber.

On the other side of the track, downforce pressed Bruce and his car into the asphalt as he swooshed through the turns at high speed. He had gotten some unwanted company out of nowhere and found himself chased hard by three drivers. Less than 50 laps to go and his contenders were ruthless. “They're trying to fuckin sandwich me here.” Jim Gordon pushed his heavy glasses back up on the sweating bridge of his nose.  
  
“Get out of there, get down and try to...”

It was then that one of the drivers who battled four abreast with him swerved into the rear quarter of Bruce's Chevy, causing him to lose control. Wayne started to curse as his car spun out and clipped the infield at such an unfortunate angle that flames almost instantly shot out from underneath. “Oh shit, shit, shit - Bruce, you are on fire - and I mean that in the most literal sense. Get out of there!”  
  
Jim Gordon's comment was met with a noncommittal grunt as the Gothamite shifted gears and cranked the steering wheel tight to bring his car in the right direction. Upon seeing the Chevy drive on undeterred, James Rhodes piped in as well. “Hey! He said get out of there, man – stop, drop and roll!” The spotter's voice sounded far more ticked off than Gordon's. Still, Bruce remained relentless. “Gonna bring her back first.”

With his whole chassis ablaze, Wayne steered the Chevy back into pit road, despite the heavy fumes that were already engulfing the driver's cabin. By then, the flames were blazing high from out of the trunk and all around the four wheels; giving the whole scene an eerie, apocalyptic feel. No sooner than he had rolled to a stop, five officials from NASCAR's crew were dousing his vehicle with firefighting foam.  
  
It was then that Bruce punched out the window net and scrambled out of the smoke-filled car. As he stood close to his wreck and watched the metal melting down the doors, he dismissively waved off the medic who was by his side to check for injuries. With idle motions, Bruce then started to take off his gloves. Moments later, Lucius Fox and Jim Gordon came his way; headphones around their necks and their faces full of concern.  
  
Immediately after his crash, the pace car was out, and the rest of the drivers were following it single-file until the site would be cleared. Seeing they had several caution laps to pass, pit road remained open. Tony took the opportunity to stop and get out of his car. He stormed past his crew members and the smoldering wreck, motioning for everyone to stand down as he advanced on Bruce, pointing a gloved finger at him.

“What the ever loving fuck, Bruce?! Are you insane? This isn't Back to the Future, you fucker!”  
Wayne's thin lips warped into a lopsided, cynical smirk.  
“You heard the guy earlier – he wanted me to burn in hell. I'd say I made his day worthwhile.”

Flabbergasted, Tony stared at him, mouth ajar. Then his brows furrowed in disbelief.  
“Sometimes I don't think I'll ever get your fucked up sense of humor.”  
White teeth shone back at him from amidst a soot-stained face.

“Do keep on trying.”  
Even if he had wanted to slap him, Tony settled for a moderately packed Wing-Chun jab to his chest.  
“You've got a lot to answer for - after I get a decent finish out of this one.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene that inspired this chapter:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWwIOnISg-k


	8. Chapter 8

Bristol Motor Speedway, Bristol 23rd  August 2014

  
“Tony, this is no demolition derby here. Three more laps, nice and easy, c'mon.”  
  
James Rhodes' voice held a tinge of rebuke. His best friend smirked behind his helmet. “Chill, platypus, will ya? I just... dunno... seem to get a little loose every now and then...” From where Chevy #19 sat bumper to bumper with one of Bruce's earlier contenders, Tony side eyed Toyota #16. The jerk to his steering wheel was minuscule, but it drove Queen's car straight up into the fencing, to spin out and get t-boned by the following cars.

“Oopsie daisy.” Mumbling to himself, Stark then fanned out his fingers around the wheel and rolled too tight shoulders. “This one's for you, babe.” As he roared past the front stretch, about to get a solid second place, Tony had another voice in his ear. “If you hadn't been busy defending my honor, you'd be on pole.” Bruce sounded somewhere between amused and vexed, which prompted Tony to chortle.

“What can I say? I'm an old-fashioned dude.” High up in their pit box, Bruce then handed Rhodes his headphones back. The spotter cast him a disdained glance, but held his tongue and went on supervising the final stages of the race. Wayne stared at his back before he turned and went to the door. “Master Wayne?” At Alfred's outstretched hand with a bottle of Gatorade, Bruce's lips formed a tiny smile.  
  
“I'll go and have our chief mechanic yell at me until Tony comes in.”

Pennyworth's blue eyes flew from him over to the monitor in the back. “According to Mister Hogan, the damage done to your Chevrolet is going to be in the $ 140,000 range.” Bruce nodded, steadfast as always and chugged some of the isotonic drink. “Charge it to my account, Alfred. Just like the fender bender Tony's likely to carry home. Neither is going on the SW Racing tab.”

* * *

Country Club Bar & Grill / Bristol, Tennessee, 23rd August 2014  
  


“Remember this joint?”  
  
Sipping from his non-alcoholic brew, Bruce nodded and glanced around. “You were playing pool with your team over there.” He pointed the bottleneck into the corner. Tony smiled and put a hand on his thigh under the bar. “And damn did you try to make me nervous.” That brought a rising eyebrow. “ _Try?_ I bet you had to pay for the destroyed cloth on that table afterward.” Tony pinched the muscular leg under his palm.  
  
“Bet you weren't half as cocky as you are now back then.”

Wayne licked his lips and pretended to lean in close. Just as Tony was about meet him halfway, Bruce pulled back with an impish smirk. “No, I was.” Dark-brown eyes darted all over his face until Tony looked down and peeled off the label of his Malta Goya with clipped thumbnails. Eventually, he sighed. “Yeah, you probably always were. Only back then, I wasn't around to witness, let alone care.”

Bruce's eyes briefly narrowed, but he said nothing and busied himself taking another sip. For a while, they drank in amicable silence and watched the crowded bar. The rest of SW racing had decided to call it a day after going out for dinner together, leaving their drivers to a nightcap for two. Out of nowhere, a bottle of Budweiser slammed down close to Bruce's arm on the wooden counter.  
  
“Well, well, well - if that isn't those two racing fags from NASCAR.”  
  
The Stark-Waynes glanced up to see the redneck from pre-race standing in front. He was still dressed in the same specked t-shirt, but instead of his child was accompanied by two companions. One wore a trucker cap, flannel and jeans, the other a denim vest and many tattoos covering his bare arms and shaved head. Combined they had a good 300 pounds on Stark and Wayne.

Tony put up a fake smile and both his hands up on the counter. “We're not looking for trouble, fellas.” The man who had encountered them at the race sneered down at him. “Maybe we are.” With a huge intake of breath, Tony slipped off his bar stool, trying rather unsuccessfully to pull Bruce along, “Yeah. Too bad. We're outta here.” Wayne had also stood up and was staring down the tattooed skinhead, his jaw set tight.

Tony pushed into the small of his back. “No. Come on. Playing defense.” Stark's hushed words and strong push to get his solid husband's body moving eventually worked. Exiting the bar, they headed for the parking lot. Neither said a word. The Camaro stood a couple of feet away, around the corner, but before they were able to reach it, voices from behind erupted. “Yo. Sissy boys. Fucking fags. Hey!”

Gravel crunched under his feet as Bruce stopped walking and turned around. “Say that one more time and I'll rip your fucking face off, lard ass.” His fingers had already pushed the car keys back into his pocket. “Ohhh, pretty boy is a toughie. So that makes him”, the guy then pointed at a glowering Tony. “The woman in your relationship?” All three of them erupted in loud, obscene laughter. Stark put up a sneer.

“How would you know? Does your right hand send you flowers?”

The man they had met at the race then nodded at his two comrades. One broke ranks and lunged for Tony. A blow aimed for his jaw flew past in a blur of knuckles, seeing Stark was fast enough to pull back. Sidetracked by the attack on him, Bruce was not fast enough to escape the punch from the other man that sunk straight into his own stomach. Doubling over, he saw Tony assuming a Wing-Chun stance from the corner of his eyes.

“Babe?”  
Stark's voice was hushed, worried.  
Bruce cast him an annoyed sideways glance.  
  
“Can we fuckin' stop playing defense now?”  
A shark-like grin appeared on Tony's face.  
“Thought you'd never ask.”  
  
They both hurled themselves at their opponents almost at once. Tony picked flannel-wearing guy and delivered a combo of fast moves to the man's chest and limbs. Too stunned to react, the goon stumbled back, lost his cap, and tried to counter block the beating as Tony continued advancing. One of his jabbing moves jerked the man off-balance and caused him to fall, dragging shorter and lighter Tony along.  
  
Mindful not to end up in a defensive position on the ground, Tony tore loose, leaving his sweat jacket behind, rolled clear, and jumped back to his feet. Like a roaring bull, his opponent clambered back to his feet and hurled himself at him again. Tony pulled his shoulders down and strengthened his core. His strokes rolled into one another, a lightning-fast combination of punches and kicks.  
  
Soon enough, his attacker flailed his arms before stumbling back. Meanwhile, Bruce and the tattooed guy were engaged in a tight clinch. They struggled on the gravel, rolling around until their clothes were covered in white dust. Bruce pinned the man down to his knees, using all of his body weight before he began dishing out punches to the uncovered face of his aggressor. A cracking noise resounded through the night.  
  
Tattoo guy howled out loud and bucked under him so that Bruce was forced to let go and take his knees off the man's arms. Instantly, the man buried his face in his palms and curled himself into a ball. Red splotches appeared between his fingers to drip on the gravel. “Broke my nose! You fucker broke my nose!” Gurgling noises and wailing could be heard. Wayne backed off as the man cursed up a blue streak.  
  
“Whom you're calling a sissy now, fuckface?”

Tony gave a final kick to flannel guy's rear where a good portion of butt crack was peeking out from ill-fitting pants. As he looked over, he found Bruce grinning back at him, covered in dirt from head to toe. He tugged at a ripped off sleeve of his shirt and brushed away a thin trail of blood from his split lip. “These guys ain't calling out anyone for some time, except for their dentists.”  
  
In unison, Tony and Bruce turned to the man who had initiated the fight but had stayed on the sidelines. He started walking backward as Stark wiped the back of his hand along his mouth. “How about getting your own knuckle sandwich, pal?” They advanced on him until he all but ran for his pick-up. After the man had left the parking lot in a cloud of dust, the Stark-Waynes interlaced their fingers and walked over to the Camaro Z28.  
  
Blinking out from underneath his rapidly swelling black eye, Stark leaned into his husband's body and cooed up at him.  
  
“Our very first pub brawl together.”  
Bruce snorted and fished for his car keys with a shake of the head.  
“Aren't you romantic.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Richmond International Raceway, 6th September 2014  


It had been the last race before NASCAR's new Challenger Rounds.

Stark-Wayne Racing made it through in sub-par conditions, seeing Jim Gordon needed to get some minor eye surgery done and subsequently had to miss out on several racing days. James Rhodes tried his best to cover for him, but he and Bruce still did not click well enough to really make it work. In the end, Tony came in on the 7th  place and Bruce barely made it to position 17 after a technical error.  
  
Post-race found the team assembled inside the hauler during the mandatory, but frosty meeting. Wayne sat, mutilating a pencil, and stared out of the window while Rhodes glared at him with arms crossed. “Positive camber is when the tire's angle is tilted away from the car's centerline, while negative camber means the tire is..." Here, Bruce raised his hand to interrupt with an exasperated, almost bored expression.

“And camber is decided depending on tire wear and, or tire temperature. Yeah, so much for theory. Frankly, James, I'm only interested in winning.” At that, the spotter threw his arms in the air, only to drop his palms flat back onto the desk with a thud. “Then you need to give me more specific instructions _during_ the race! How the heck am I supposed to know you're loose when all I get is tight-lipped 'Nah's' and 'S'alright's?”

After listening to Wayne and Rhodes arguing over minor details, Pennyworth raised a palm to which the quarrel died down. “This is not about putting the blame on anyone, but since Jim is going to be absent for at least another two weeks, we need to figure out how to improve the situation at hand.” Alfred then folded his hands on the table and glanced from a tired looking Lucius Fox back at the two sullen men.  
  
Eventually, Tony who was slouching in an expensive designer chaise lounge in the back took his arm out from where it served as a pillow and rubbed his forehead. “Yep, he does that. Babe, no, don't scowl at _me_ now - you do that. Sorry, I'm with Rhodey on this one.” Pepper Potts who had decided to take minutes to avoid getting in the line of fire, shifted in her chair and switched her crossed legs from right to left.  
  
“Different modus operandi don't automatically count as lack of interest.”  
  
Bruce cast her a grateful glance and leaned forward to rub his palms together. “I just know I can do better, alright? Much better. I made the Chase and got my 2,000 points on top!” Stark then summarized the scenario in his usual, blunt words. “Yeah, only that when you _do_ make the Chase, you want it to be for a championship, not just ride around in it like at a fucking pony farm.”

Cheeks flushed red, Wayne pressed his lips together and stared at a spot in between his racing sneakers. As soon as the meeting was called over and done, everyone went about their business. While Alfred took Lucius for lunch, Rhodey went back to the garage to team up with Happy. Once everyone was gone, Tony stretched thoroughly before he stood up and cast his morose husband a sideways glance.

“Hey, don't mope, sugar, c'mon. You're just going through a little rough patch. It'll get better.”

When Bruce did not bother to react, Tony moved over to ruffle his sweated hair. “Did you hear what I just said?” With an aggravated yank of the head, Bruce escaped his caresses. “You'd better go and tell Rhodes that. His spotting has been downright awful today. No, scratch that. The past two races actually.” Tony's expression turned hard. “Rhodey did nothing wrong there, he did the best he could. The rest is up to us.”

The Gothamite slapped his thighs and stood up. “Whatever. I'm gonna take a shower now and get the bike out for a spin.” His husband's hand was on his wrist before he could move past. “You think spending more time on two wheels instead of four is gonna be beneficial?” Bruce pulled his arm free and went into the bathroom. “Oh, I'm sure it is. For me at least.” His tone was as cocky as Tony's was challenging.

Much to Stark's surprise, it was not him who got invited to ride along, but his longtime assistant.  
  
Tall and svelte Pepper Potts tried to look confident as she clawed her hands around her driver's midriff on the Honda Repsol. When Tony approached them, the confusion on his face was visible even from far away. “Uh-huh, what's this going to be?” Pepper's face was already half-hidden behind the huge helmet. “Bruce said he'd take me along for a ride. Hope I'll be able to walk afterward.”

At her high-pitched, nervous giggle, Bruce also slipped his helmet on and removed the kickstand. “You don't have to worry, I got you. Just remember to lean with me.” She nodded and closed her visor. Tony gnawed on his soul patch. “Taking one for the team there, Potts?” At his husband's icy glare, Tony was quick to put up a diffuse smile. He then stepped back and pulled out his phone out to take a picture.  
  
“Just for evidence, should you two decide to abscond... or go down the Bonny and Clyde route.” He returned the little wave Pepper cast him before Bruce ignited the bike. With a little shriek, she fastened her hold around his midriff. Arms akimbo, Tony watched them pull out of the driveway. His assistant's arms were wrapped tight around Bruce's shirt before they disappeared around the corner.

Thanks to the state-of-the-art helmets that came equipped with two Bluetooth intercom headsets, Bruce and Pepper were able to keep a conversation during their drive. The Gothamite went extra careful with his new passenger, and after the first two minutes, he felt her deadly grip starting to relax a little. “How does Tony do this all the time? Sheesh.” Shifting gears, Bruce looked over his shoulder before he entered the freeway.  
  
“To be honest, it felt like he was breaking my hips with him squeezing his legs on me the first time.”

* * *

After a ten-minute ride, they had made it to Carytown Burgers Fries without any bigger problems. Pepper only bumped her helmet into his helmet once, until she had figured out the ideal way of holding herself up without causing any more problems. Placing their orders at the counter, they took a seat outside on the covered patio and sipped on their soft drinks. Bruce leaned back and stretched out his long legs.

When he had scanned the surroundings for the longest time, he hooked one elbow upon the headrest of the nearby empty chair and focused on the redhead opposite of him. “So, there's this rumor I've heard...” Pepper peeked up from where she had poked the straw at the ice cubes in her soda. “Pray tell, I'm curious.”  
His expression spoke of barely held-back glee. “Your true name really is Virginia?”

His lips curled into a grin. She scolded him with a highly arched brow. “Oh, shush it, you. Otherwise, everyone at the team will know _your_ full name is actually Bruce Montgomery Wayne.” He looked as if he had been doused with a bucket full of ice-cold water. “How would you...” Pepper's smile turned predatory. “Who do you think's in charge of filing all of your personal data, such as the marriage certificate, silly?”

At her victorious smirk, a sobered-up Bruce raised both hands into the air.  
“Touché. If I pay for dinner, will you forgive and forget my stupidity?”  
She grinned.  
  
“I might... _Monty."_

Once their orders arrived – Big Mike burger for Bruce, and Mock Chicken Nugget Sandwich for Pepper – they lapsed into a food-filled silence. While the Gothamite attacked his burger with vigor, Pepper took her time. As soon as he had polished off his plate, she halted her fork mid-air and smiled. “Now you look a little better than before.” He blew out his cheeks and simultaneously pushed the plate further away from him.

“Tell that again to my carb face tomorrow morning.” He stifled a yawn behind the back of his hand and reached for his Coke. “Guess I'll have to hit the gym a bit harder than usual.” Pepper made a little tutting sound and inched the basket of fries they had split into his direction. “Your humblebrag strategy's not working with me. Eat up, you more than deserve it after today.”

With a snort, Bruce sat up a little straighter and put crossed arms atop the tablecloth. “As you've heard in the meeting, some people clearly disagree with what you just said.” Pepper poked her fork at pieces of lettuce and chopped onion and popped them into her mouth. “Don't let them get to you. James and Tony are inseparable like brothers, ever since I've met them.”

Bruce reached for the last handful of fries to avoid having to answer right away. “Hm.” His company dabbed at the corner of her mouth and grasped for her drink. “But you're not aiming to become Tony's brother – you're his husband, and you're entitled to disagree with him, even if he sides with Rhodey.” Working his jaw, the Gothamite looked at something in the distance while he finished chewing.

“Taking the backseat's not really my favorite pastime.” He all but flinched when Pepper's cool fingers covered the back of his hand. Her freckled face morphed into a genuine, affectionate expression. “It's never wise to mix up business and private. And once we get back, I'm sure you and Tony are able to work it out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to canon!Bruce Wayne for giving him such an outrageous middle name.


	10. Chapter 10

When Bruce returned later that evening, he found their private hauler empty. Without thinking, he went around the corner to head for the mobile workshop instead. The garage lay in darkness except for some blueish hues coming from a fluorescent clip-on light that was sitting in the #19 Chevy's open hood.

“Tony?”

“Here.”

The dark baritone echoed through the hall, accompanied by the whining sounds of an air wrench. Wayne followed its source over to where Stark hunkered down, next to the fender, wielding the battery-powered tool like a weapon. Tony's shirt was covered in motor oil and grease, just like his too baggy cargo pants. His husband folded his arms across his chest. “Have you eaten?”  
  
When Tony avoided looking up, it left Bruce to focus on the dark locks that curled in his nape. “Was hungry, but had no motivation to feed myself, so no.” Unbeknownst to him, an eyebrow and the corner of Wayne's mouth arched upwards. “Should I get someone to come adult for you?” Tony gave a meek snarl and threw a bent-handle flex ratchet aside. “Careful there with the pot and kettle calling shit.”

He fumbled around the hip utility belt some more until he stole a sideways glance up. “How was the funvee? Is Pep crazy about riding bitch seat now? Did you have fun lamenting your shitty taste in men?” Bruce tilted his head and leaned a hip against the car. “Why would I? I married the finest specimen there is.” Two bewildered dark eyes sized him up from bottom to top. “Uh- huh? Kiss and make up time?”

As soon as he made an attempt to get up, Tony found himself grabbed by the front of his stained shirt. “Something like that.” Wayne's mouth zoomed in without further explanations, cutting off any possible wisecrack. “Mmpffh.” To go with the rough kissing, Bruce's fingers soon were busy trying to wrestle the button of Tony's pants open. Once he succeeded, it took two rough pulls, until they were down at his ankles.

“Ungh... babe...?”  
  
Tony's voice hitched when Bruce spun him around and bent him over the trunk. “Shhh.” With the metal of the car cold against his hips and thighs, Tony felt Bruce's erection pressing up against his crack. “Y- you know that n...-none of the liquids around qualify as lube, eh?” His quip came out strangled and elicited a mere grunt. “I know.” Bruce's free hand, the one not pressing down Tony's nape, fetched a small packet from his pocket.

Tearing it with his teeth, his lubed fingers soon had slicked both himself and his desired territory. An indecent groan escaped Tony's mouth upon being entered and echoed through the garage. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”  Clenching his fingers around the flesh of his hips, Bruce began to set up a steady rhythm. “Exactly.” Tony's grease-stained fingers left blackened imprints on his Chevy as he braced himself against the car.

The smell of motor oil and metal was in his nostrils, combined with the scent of Bruce's shower gel. For the longest time, their grunts and the slapping sounds of flesh on flesh filled the air, until Wayne came with a low groan, a final thrust, and a tight fist curled into Tony's hair. A few heartbeats later, he reached around for his husband's still present arousal and got him off with a few deft, twirling strokes.

“You fucker made me come on my car.”

Tony's panted voice held a tinge of amusement as Bruce pulled his pants back up and went to get a couple of clean paper towels. "Here.” Wayne watched him wipe down the bumper of his Chevy, pants still around his ankles. “Some christening.” Tony crumpled the stained towels into a tight little ball and moved to shimmy back into his faded denims. “Remind me to also clear the security cam feed first thing in the morning.”

“Or leave it in and give Happy a heart attack.”

“Fuck, you're cruel, B.”

“I brought you some burger and fries along.”

“I... take that last thing back.”

“You know you love me.”

“Riiiight.”

* * *

Over a sumptuous breakfast the next day, an ivory-colored envelope landed on Bruce's own StarkPad.  
“There. For you.”  
The Gothamite glanced up from where he had been reading the latest news on SB Nation.  
  
“What is it?”  
Tony's neatly trimmed goatee moved into an enticing smirk.  
“Open up or you'll never know.”

With a guarded expression, Bruce flipped the unsealed envelope up and pulled out a piece of laminated paper. After skimming along the few lines, he read them out aloud, brows furrowed in confusion. “Voucher for a BMW driving experience in LA, Palm Springs. Valid until December 2014.” His eyes wandered back over to the dark-brown ones of his husband. “... care to explain?”  
  
Unfazed by the usual, unemotional response, Tony remained as cheeky as usual.  
“To get your four-wheeled-groove back. To drive something else than a Chevy for once. To have fun. I dunno.”  
“Uh-huh.”

“No, no, that's not what you meant. You meant to say 'Oh, Tony, sexiest man of the Western hemisphere I ever had the pleasure to lay my eyes upon, you are such a loving and wonderful human being for not only satisfying my most carnal needs but also for caring deeply about my feelings! Why don't you let me express my gratitude in the most exuberant way.” During his monolog, Bruce's fingers had tapped upon the envelope.

“You finished?” Tony leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head with a satisfactory smirk. “Yeah. Feel like I should send myself flowers now, but... yeah. So – bottom line is: You don't like it.” Bruce glimpsed at the voucher again. “No, I mean - it doesn't really... cut it. It's nothing I ever would end up wanting to do.” Curious, Tony crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table. “What is it that you want then?”  
  
It took less than five seconds for a rather shrewd grin to appear on Wayne's face.  
  
“There is _some_ thing _.”_

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AMA = American Motorcyclist Association

New Jersey Motorsports Park, 13th September 2014  
  
  
“Ugh. How you can call this your idea of fun is beyond me. Yikes.”  
  
Wayne, already decked out in full racing gear, shifted his helmet under his left arm and smirked. “Finally a race that doesn't get canceled just because of a few drops of water.” When Tony had agreed to accompany his husband to the AMA Pro Road Racing event in New Jersey, it had been pouring ever since the early morning hours. They had arrived early at the 2.25-mile track in Millville and huddled under a canopy stand.

Tony held out a tentative arm, only to pull it in when it came back wet. He threw the Gothamite a pointed look and zipped his Belstaff leather jacket shut all the way up. “Honey, it's pissing down, whom are you kidding here?” He watched Bruce wiping down his helmet from the two test laps he had absolved. Wayne shrugged. “I don't mind. Just looking forward to racing again after the long break.”

Ever since the two of them had eloped, Bruce had not actively participated in any superbike races. He had chosen New Jersey because there were less than 20 competitors on track, running a 23-lap distance. Wayne would be starting from the 18th position, due to his long period of inactivity. “Well then – show em what you're made of, tiger. Make my day.”

With an open eye roll from Bruce, they shared a final, quick kiss before he had to get to the starting grid.

Even if he had not wanted to admit it at first, Tony loved seeing Bruce race. The adrenaline-crazy part in him thrived to see how his husband melted into his bike, almost becoming one with the machine, to defy the rules of gravity. By the fifth lap, Stark had been completely infected with the AMA bug. He was cheering, whistling, and fist-pumping along as Wayne outmaneuvered his opponents and steadily gained ground.  
  
With daredevil moves and power slides, Bruce managed to stick to his line and gained faster corner speed. In round 15 however, Tony knew something was wrong. Even if it had stopped raining, the ground was still very much sated from the heavy previous downpour. As soon as his Honda Repsol came over a rise on the undulating main straight, Bruce lost the front of his RCV under braking.  
  
In an instant, his machine slewed and bucked like a wild horse. At 210 mph, it then careered and sent its driver flying head forward through the air. Slamming down hard onto the asphalt, Wayne somersaulted a couple of times, to come to rest in a gravel pit, face down. His machine flew even further, twisting and tumbling, only to burst into pieces seconds later.

Tony had jumped to his feet and held his breath behind the safety fence of the visitor's stand. His fingers clawed around the railing as he stared at the Jumbotron, waiting for his husband to get back on his feet. Waited for Bruce to scramble to his knees; to slam his fists into the ground and gesture at the mechanics. The seconds ticked away as Wayne continued to lay on the ground, unmoving, far away from his mangled wreck.  
  
Fear gripped Tony's heart tight as sirens howled out over the racing track.

* * *

_'Remember when you hit the brakes too soon – 20 stitches in the hospital room...'_

Ironically it was that line from a pop song that reverberated in Tony's head over and over as he sat in one of the many hard, green plastic chairs of the Inspira Medical Center and waited for the surgeon to come out of OR. After spending 30 minutes in the circuit medical center, an ambulance had taken Bruce to the hospital in Vineland for a detailed examination of his injuries.  
  
By that time, Bruce had been at least conscious enough to understand what was going on. Most of his face was hidden behind an oxygen mask, and a huge cervical collar sat around his neck. Tony was allowed to ride along in the back, clenching Wayne's motorcycle gloves in one fist while holding Bruce's hand. He had tried hard not to focus on the red seeping out from underneath the oxygen mask.  
  
Instead, Tony had kept his eyes locked on Bruce's frantic ones, trying to calm him down without words until medication set in. Underneath the ambulance blanket, Wayne still wore his Stark-Tech Air Race Suit prototype. As soon as it had detected the crash, the technology had deployed airbag protection for shoulders and back, reaching full inflation 30 milliseconds before Bruce's first impact with the pavement.  
  
Tony Stark himself had taken several months and great pride in working out the suit's crash-detection algorithms with the help of data gathering and specific sensor output of crashing patterns. It subsequently had saved his husband's life that very day. Lost in thought, the inventor then jerked out of his reverie when a doctor walked over into his direction.

“Most injuries are minor; some contusions to his shoulder, elbow, and forearm. The swelling of his jaw should go down in a couple of days, just like the pain from his strained neck. X-ray showed no clear damage to the lumbar vertebrae, but he must have hit the ground quite hard. We need to run some more scans to make sure there is no more serious damage.”

Tony's mind involuntarily took him back to the time over a year ago, when the Gothamite had suffered an injury to his lower back in Talladega due to Steve Rogers' destructive driving. He shuddered thinking about the potential breaking point of his husband's physique. “But he's not... I mean, he can still... walk, right?” His voice sounded not like his own as he stared at the elder physician.  
  
“He is not going to be paraplegic, no. But he does need to be a lot more careful – the spinal cord shows some damage due to previous trauma.” With the blood rushing in his ears, Tony swallowed down his biggest fear and nodded along. “Can I see him?” Doctor MacArthur tilted his head and dug into the pocket of his coat. “As his spouse, you may very well sit with him. Keep in mind he's just been given another shot of Ketorolac.”  
  
Tony had to smirk, despite the dire situation.  
  
“He's high as a kite, I get it.”  
  
When he sneaked into single bedroom number 128, it was dimly lit by an overhead lamp on the wall. The curtains were drawn shut, and faint beeping filled the silence. From where he lay on his back, blanket drawn up to his chest, Bruce meanwhile wore a hospital gown and had his eyes closed. Careful not to disturb him, Tony tiptoed nearer to occupy the chair next to the bedside.  
  
Just as he fished for his mobile, about to send all worried parties a text, there was movement to his left. “T'ny?” Leaning over, Stark studied his battered features and stroked the back of a nearby thumb. “I'm here, love. Do you need something? Are you in pain?” Swallowing with difficulty, Wayne licked his lips and forced his eyes half open. At first, he blinked at the ceiling, until he found the source of noise to his right.  
  
At the sight of Tony's worried countenance, he squinted, briefly closed his eyes one more time, and tried again after a good five seconds. “N'uh. Don' feel m... much. Is 'vryth'ng... 'ntact?” The hand with a cannula in it rose slightly to point into the direction of his legs. Tony took it into his. “Yeah, you'll be fine. No permanent damage. Just a lot of rest. And me kicking your butt during rehab.”

A lopsided smirk.  
“'m an idiot.”  
It made Tony snort, then sniffle.

“Yup. A safe bet for idiot of the year even, but it's only September, so it might be a little too premature.” Confusion showed on Wayne's face, to which Stark was quick to resume his tender caresses to his fingers. “Nevermind. They doped you up real good there, hun. Try and sleep some, I'm gonna be here.” Bruce's swollen jaw moved into some kind of lopsided smile. “Mhm. Suit's great, tho'. Y're great, too. L'v ya.”  
  
Tony patted and stroked his husband's hand until Bruce drifted off into a medically induced sleep.  
  
“Dito, Bboy. Dito.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "that line from a pop song" refers to Taylor Swift's 'Out of the woods' (2014)
> 
> crash loosely based on this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kW8y-rikx1Y
> 
> fun fact: The AMA Pro SuperBike Race which took place that weekend was indeed a rainy one (even if there were no Hondas on track) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnD-40vQgTY


	12. Chapter 12

Pulling a disgusted face at the grimy payphone receiver, Tony walked out of the hospital to switch on and use his own phone. As he stood under the roof and gazed out at the gray and misty scenery, he did not have to wait longer than two rings until the line got picked up.

“What up, Tones?”

“Rhodey, we... have a situation.”

“What? What's wrong? What happened?”

Tony sighed and pinched his eyes shut with two fingers.

“Bruce is in the hospital after a motorbike accident.”

A pause.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough for him to not make it to Illinois tomorrow.”

“Shitfuck. Tomorrow's the first of the Challenger Rounds.”

“I know. I'll be there, platypus, don't worry. You can tell Alf and Lou I'll be there on time.”

“Tones...”

“Yeah, no, I got this. I... not much I can do for him here anyhow. He'd do the same if things were vice versa.”

“For sure. Man, and Alfred's worried as hell. He's about to fly out immediately after we got your text.”

“Tell him to hold his horses. Bruce's is banged up, but not in critical.”

“Dude, I am not telling that man _any_ thing. He's got four inches on me, and an authority to match.” Tony leaned against the light blue wall of the hospital's main entrance area and ran his free hand through his hair. “Tell me about it. But okay, if he wants to switch places, that's fine with me. As long as you and Lou are there to get me through Chicagoland Raceway. Oh, and have Pep charter the jet, will ya?”

“Course. Lucius is already prepping for multitasking tomorrow. See you later, man. Safe flight.”

They hung up on each other, and Tony pocketed his phone. Around midnight, Alfred Pennyworth arrived to find Tony Stark snoozing in a chair in the corner of the hospital room to a fast asleep Bruce Wayne. The latter neither noticed the gentle kiss his husband placed on his forehead, nor the quiet conversation between Pennyworth and Stark before Tony left with a heavy heart.  
  
After the Gulfstream had been refueled upon Alfred's arrival, Bruce's private jet took Tony Stark over to Illinois in under three hours.

* * *

Chicagoland Speedway, Joliet, September 14th  2014

“I know your head's not in the game today, but try to give it the best you got.”  
  
Upon Fox' pep talk, Tony blinked up at him and nodded. “Not the best position to begin with, but I'll manage.” The crew chief patted his left arm one more time. “Fast groove and a safe race, Tony.” The Chase-Opening race started on bad terms. Due to heavy rain, qualifying was canceled and thus, Stark won pole based on the session's times.

He poured all of his frustration and worries into the car and led a race-high 79 laps, thinking about the fastest way back to New Jersey.  
  
“You're doing great, Tones, but even if you gained wings, 267 laps are still 267 laps. No shortcut.”

“I know, platypus, I know. I just wanna get this done and over with. How many left?”

“18 laps to go. If nothing goes wrong, you'll have a sweet second place finish.”

In the end, Oliver Queen beat Tony for 2nd  when the latter blew up out of turn 4. Stark still managed to streak across the finish line, albeit up in smoke, to finish 4th. Post-race interviews found the rookie from Starling City full of praise for his contenders.  
  
"What a race. I saw Barry and Stark racing each other really hard, they were aggressively side drafting, and I was waiting for an opportunity to strike and it came. The car stuck and everything came together. Tony Stark's a legend, racing against him is really an honor. Winning against him is like hitting jackpot."

Queen then paused to hold up one hand as the man in question walked past him. Tony neither responded to his high-five gesture nor did he stop for any interview requests. From where his crew was just clearing the pit box, Lucius Fox pulled his headphones down and looked at Rhodes and Gordon. “I'll handle this. You make sure that boy at least drinks and eats something before he's heading out.”

* * *

Inspira Medical Center, Vineland, 14th September 2014

  
Bruce woke to the sound of rain pelting against a window, and distant sounds from what he assumed were television. A sterile, almost plastic smell stung in his nose and he tried to breathe it away. “Master Wayne?” Eyes closed, he took inventory of his current physical situation. “Mhm.” As soon as he opened them, Bruce was met with his team manager's concerned but relieved gaze. “We really need to stop meeting this way.”  
  
The tiniest of smirks appeared on Wayne's lips as he forced his eyes open and glimpsed at his confidant. “You don't say, Alfred.” He shifted ever so slightly and winced at the erupting pain. “Is... Tony gone?” Pennyworth stood up to hand him a glass of water and a blister pack of pills of which he took two out. “Indeed he is. The race is currently going into the third caution of the day. Master Anthony is on pole.”  
  
Bruce took the pills without complaint and cast a disdained glance down at the IV cannula in his hand. “I wanna see it.” Alfred turned the volume up and moved to adjust the bed for Bruce to be able to watch. “How many more laps left?”

“Close to 80.”

The Gothamite managed to watch most of the race's second half, before medication set in rather quick. Alfred did not have to try and conceal his concern at the way his eyes rolled in the back of his head before he slipped off into a medically induced sleep. “He will be here to tell you about it, Master Bruce.” With a loving pat to a covered leg, the older team manager then pulled out his phone and began to type.

 


	13. Chapter 13

New Jersey, 15th September 2014

  
After literally getting out of his car post-race, engine still running, Tony dragged his exhausted form back to the airfield. A three-hour nap aboard later, he was back at his husband's side. Alfred had kept the team and him up to date via text, and informed them how Wayne was about to officially get released. Changed into civilian clothes aboard the jet, Tony walked through the sterile white corridors of Inspira Medical Center.

Headed for room 128 on the first floor, he was kind enough to leave the elevator for a woman in a wheelchair. About to sprint up the first flight of stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks when a familiar figure exited. “... Steve?” The man in question also froze and turned around. Steve Rogers' hair was shaved to a crisp buzzcut and his beard had grown into a full version, albeit a couple of shades darker than his usual blonde.

“Tony! What - are you doing here?” For several heartbeats, Tony said nothing and simply took in the sight of his ex-lover. “Pickin up someone. You?” As quick as he was to steer the topic away, Steve did not seem to mind. Instead, his expression turned crestfallen.

“Same. Bucky, he... had a near-fatal crash, back in June. They had to take off his left arm to keep him alive. And now we're making appointments with each and every orthopedic surgeon around Brooklyn.” Tony felt a shiver run through his body at the thought. “His whole... I mean... from shoulder to...?” Steve nodded and stared at the floor. “Yeah. He can be glad he survived, though.” Tony looked truly sucker punched for a moment.

“Fuck, I'm...” Steve's head shot back up, just like his hand, almost commanding. “No, don't. I... well. How – how are you doing these days?” They had to make way for a couple of doctors passing them by and moved to stand close to the window in the corner. “Erm, yeah... good, good. Good actually. So... they are able to help him out around here?” Tony chewed on his soul patch and watched Steve avoid his gaze to scratch at his nape.

“They're still working on a prosthetic arm that won't cause him constant pain, but..” His voice trailed off, and Tony felt obliged to step in. “There's plenty of good prosthetics these days. He'll be getting one faster than you think.” Steve's blue eyes darted around, looking at everything except Tony's face. “Yeah, it's... it'll work out. Somehow.” Thoughtful, Tony palmed his cheek after a moment.

“I'll keep my ears open should the guys at SI bionics come up with some transhumeral prosthesis.” Rogers' eyes then searched for and held his gaze for the first time since their meeting. “Would that be possible?” Tony gave a shrugged nod. “Course. It's not one of their major fields, but who knows.” Steve started as soon as he heard his name being called out over the hospital's speaker system. “Okay.”

Fishing around in one of his pockets, he pressed something into Tony's palm seconds later. “If ya ever find something out.” His fingers were warm and slightly sticky as they brushed against Tony's. Only when he was gone did Stark dare to look at the item in his hand. A business card, a phone number starting with 347 – Brooklyn's area code. Tony shoved it into the pocket of his denims and headed over to pick up his husband.

* * *

Seeing Bruce showered, shaved, and dressed took some of Tony's internal guilt away. The pair of crutches he was using, however, and the look of annoyance on his face spoke volumes. “About time. Get me out of here. If Alfred hadn't been around, the nurses would've gone and sponge bathed me.” Tony stepped closer to loop his arms around Bruce's neck and got up on his toes to steal a kiss. “I know, I saw them queuing up outside.”

His audacity earned him a prominent scowl and two very furrowed brows. Stark only grinned. “Hey now, who can blame them.” Tony moved to grab one of the bags Alfred had brought along, which most likely held Bruce's mangled race suit. He gave an amicable slap on his team manager's shoulder. “I owe you, Alf. For taking care of this big oaf when I was out there, kicking ass and taking names.“

Wayne hobbled after them, listening to Tony's cheer- and boastful recap of last night's race with a miffed expression. “I would've smoked that guy. Queen.” The shorter man turned around mid-stride and threw him his best 'oh please' look. “Darling, you and I will speak about you smoking _any_ body as soon as I've fastened the training wheels on your bike. Oh, wait – no, that's actually strewn all over the racetrack.”  
  
Alfred pointedly cleared his throat to which the brief lover's spat died down. “I am favorably inclined to buy both of you boys ice cream, provided this childish episode ends before we get on the jet.” Seeing he walked in front, Pennyworth missed both the exasperated eye roll of his protege and the Cheshire cat-like grin of the other billionaire.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Malibu, late September 2014  
  


Recovery time was painful, cost Bruce valuable points, and most of his already sparse good mood. To go with it, he grew out a beard and his hair, giving him more of a rugged appearance. Tony loved it, even if he could very well have done without his husband's obnoxious mood swings and depressed episodes.

Bound to the Mansion in Malibu, Bruce had to endure private physiotherapy three times a week, missing out on the two remaining Challenger Rounds races in New Hampshire and Dover. In the meantime, Tony Stark managed to score pole in Dover and got himself instant advancement into the upcoming Contender Rounds. After the four drivers lowest in points were eliminated, it ultimately left only 12 drivers in the Chase.

Because of his solid performance in the previous regular races, Bruce still qualified as well, though his lead was shrinking fast with each new race he involuntarily had to pass on.

“I'm thinking about getting a theme song for our team. How about 'Rock you like a Hurricane'?” They were currently in Tony's private gym, with Bruce lying prone on a yoga mat and doing his daily set of back rehab exercises. Wayne halted his motions to grace him with a look that spoke volumes. Stark pursed his lips. “ _Not._ Hmm. Okay... Oh, oh, but this one! You'll love it: 'Bat out of Hell'.”

“Oh, please.”  
  
The words came out more like a grunt, seeing Bruce was in the middle of raising his upper body and his legs off the floor at the same time. Eyes sparkling, Tony sauntered nearer. “Right. You're rather channeling your inner 'Fall Guy Theme' here anyhow.” Graceful like a yogi, he then lowered himself into lotus seat, propped his chin up on a fist and watched on. “No offense, babe, but this looks hilarious as fuck.”

That time, Wayne neither replied, nor stopped. Tony remained silent for a couple of seconds. “So... theme song. C'mon now. I'm open to suggestions.” Hazel eyes peeked up at him from under long, sweated bangs. “Leave me alone is my suggestion.” Stark tilted his head. “Hmm. Artist and genre?” With a groan, Bruce let arms and legs sink and carefully rolled onto his back to stare at the gym's ceiling.

“If I could, I'd totally love to fight you right now.” Mere seconds later, Tony's cheerful countenance loomed above him. “Know what you totally remind me of just now? That guy from the old Monty Python movie. That black knight. _'Alright, we'll call it a draw'._ Remember that scene?” Tony snickered way too much at his own association. An indignant Bruce then had to swat his husband's wandering hands away from his crotch.

“No.”

“That's unbelievable. You don't remember that scene.. or the whole movie?”

“At the risk of repeating myself: No.”

“Touchy, touchy. Ah, you've got enough time to catch up on important stuff like good movies for the upcoming weeks. In the meantime, I might go and have Happy add that to your bumper sticker. I think it fits. _'Bruce Stark-Wayne: Black Knight. Bat out of Hell. Sourpuss. Total Movie Dunce'_.”  
  
Once he was done drawing up imaginary headlines into the air, Tony helped Bruce to his feet. Together they went into the open kitchen where Wayne lowered himself onto a bar stool and rubbed his back. “Don't you have anybody else to pester?” From where he stood and peeked into the fridge, Tony grinned around the open door. “Nope. Shake? But only if you've already taken your daily dose of doozies.”  
  
He grabbed the nearby bottle of Naproxen from the counter and shook it with a rattling sound. Fishing a magazine from the stack of daily mail to his right, Bruce sullenly started thumbing through the latest issue of Cycle World. “Yes, and stop babysitting me.” When Tony put a tall glass filled to the brim with a thick concoction in front of his nose, he glimpsed at the article on new sports bikes Bruce was reading.

“Ohh no, forget it. You're not getting back on a bike in the next bazillion years if I can help it, babe. I love you just too much _with_ your head on.” Wayne huffed with an air of disgruntlement as he whipped a page around. “It's not like I'm a cripple or something. Accidents happen. And see - all limbs are still attached.” At that, Tony stopped grinning. “Have... you heard? About that crash in the Camping World Truck Series?”

Bruce briefly glimpsed up at him. “No, why?” Stark swallowed and ran a thumb along the drops of water of his cold glass. “One of the drivers had to have his arm amputated. From shoulder downward.” Instead of an emphatic answer, Wayne shrugged and reached for his glass without taking his eyes off the magazine. “Shows that you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.” Tony scrunched up his nose. “You're disgusting.”  
  
Bruce finished up his shake in two large gulps and put the glass down with a thunk. “And moreover in the mood for real food. What's for dinner? Eggs Benedict?” He ducked just in time behind his magazine to avoid getting hit by a flying bottle of Naproxen. “How bout a big fat portion of sympathy and compassion?” Wayne snorted with something akin to laughter and let the magazine sink. “Bit too hard to digest for my taste.”  
  
Shaking his head, Tony put his empty glass in the dishwasher and bolted the stairs up to the private area. 

When he came back ten minutes later, he wore a sharp-looking, dark blue business suit. A whiff of his fragrance caught Bruce's nose, and he gave a drawn-out whistle. “What's with the fancy-schmancy get up?” Stark grabbed his shades and car keys from the kitchen island and pecked Bruce's cheek in passing. “SI board meeting. I'll be back in an hour. You'll be a good boy and do more of those...”

He mimicked the previous back exercises, exaggerating them with comical contortions.  
Bruce huffed and flipped him off, already busy browsing the motorbike magazine again.  
“Get lost, swagaholic."

* * *

When Tony returned, it was two and a half hours later and he wore a tired, and disgruntled expression. “Fucking desk jockeys. I know why I leave the paperwork to someone else.” He slipped out of his jacket and took off his silken tie with a swift motion to throw it over the valet stand in the corner. “Reminds me of which: When's _your_ next round of corporate blue balls, sweetcheeks?”

Bruce switched off the television and uncrossed his ankles. “Dunno. Think I'm gonna send Alfred anyhow.” Something glinted in the light of the bedside lamp and prompted Bruce to get to his feet. “What's that?” His fingertip traced along the half-open collar of Tony's white button-down shirt to brush against a nondescript silver chain. Stark squirmed a little under his touch and tried to pull away. “Nothing, really.”

His husband stayed persistent, however, and soon discovered the little pendant hanging from the chain.  
“You still have it?”  
Tony craned his neck to look down to where Bruce's pinkie held up the Honda key ring from Vegas.  
  
“Of course. What kind of a husband would I be if I dared to lose my real wedding ring?” Eyes unreadable, the Gothamite removed his hand and stared long and hard at him. Wordless, he then walked around to his side of the bed and opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand. “No way.” Tony's voice was more than incredulous as Bruce held up the paperclip ring for him to see. “I just have to be more careful with mine. Keep it safe.”

The lovemaking that followed was far more gentle and affectionate than the two of them usually went for. Mindful of Bruce's lower back, Tony took over the active part, going for a position that allowed him to kiss all of his lover's face and neck. His lips grazed the still raw scar on Bruce's jaw with affection. “If only I could keep _you_ safe... and in this bed forever... I would. In a heartbeat.”

Wayne's eyes, heavily clouded by the passion of his impending orgasm, flickered up at him. “Gotta... release me at some point, but...” His hand moved over, from where it had cupped the back of Tony's hand, to tangle within the chain around his neck. “...'m yours.” With a stifled cry, Tony then came inside of him, his whole body shuddering from the force of his release.

His husband let him ride it out; his expression turning from proud and loving to enraptured and intense when Stark slid down further south and took him into his mouth. It prompted him to come seconds later, too, hips bucking into the mattress to the feel of Tony's warm lips around his shaft until he had spent himself. “Come here.” Bruce's voice was rough as he shifted and held up his arm for Tony to snuggle against his chest.

They lay in sated silence for a while, until Wayne's eyes fell upon the paperclip ring on his nightstand again. Fingering the crooked little metal oval, he glimpsed down to where Tony's goatee tickled against his bare chest.  Once more, Bruce reached out to run his fingers through those thick, dark locks. With a soft sigh, Tony then stirred out of his daze and nuzzled against him.  
  
“Whatcha thinkin?”  
Bruce inched the paperclip ring over his titanium wedding band.  
“I'll do it. The Driving Camp.”  
  
He felt the goatee smile against his skin.  
“S'good, honey bear. S'good.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Thermal, California, 2nd October 2014  
  


It was a bright and sunny Thursday morning when Bruce Wayne walked into the BMW Performance Center on the west coast. After a jet had taken him from Malibu to Palm Springs in less than an hour, he now stood with a dozen other excited guys on a closed 1.6-mile course. Instead of listening to the official introduction to the one-day M school event, Bruce's attention flew over to the various BMW models lined up on the side.

Soon enough, driving instructors were picking their designated clients, and it was then that a familiar voice shook Wayne out of his scrutiny.

“Hello, Bruce.”  
Turning around, the Gothamite found himself staring at a pair of striking blue eyes.  
“Clark?”

Kent's mouth turned into a lopsided smile. He pushed the black BMW Driving Experience cap a little higher and put his arms akimbo. “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw your name on the list. Of all places, I never suspected you to find your way around here.” An awkward silence erupted, during which Bruce scanned the area, squinting against the morning sun. “It... was a gift.”

His mumbled words and searching glances caused Kent to grimace. “There's no other instructor free if that's what you're looking for. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid.” His voice turned peeved. “You could go and reschedule for a new slot. I'm always off on Mondays.” Feeling caught, Bruce gave a noncommittal shrug. “I don't mind.” Their eyes met again and Wayne gave the tiniest smirk. Kent's glare turned softer.

“Okay. Then let's get started.”

Their designated car was a metallic blue BMW M5 with shining 20'' rims. It prompted the stoic Gothamite to give an approving nod as he opened the driver's door and slid into the seat. “Not bad. You always had a soft spot for German cars, Clark.” Said man slipped into the passenger seat, busy scribbling something down on a clipboard. He twisted to ditch the item onto the backseat. “Why yes, it's classic workmanship.”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow while his palms ran along the leather steering wheel. It prompted Clark's eyes to involuntarily land upon the ring on his finger. “Plus they are the most... reliable ones.” At Wayne's noncommittal grunt, Kent forced himself to look away. “Okay now, give it a shot.” The powerful engine purred under their feet as Bruce pressed ignition and clicked the belt shut. “So, what do we do with this one?”

His foot hovered over the accelerator, tipping it a few times to let the engine howl. Clark buckled up. “Seeing I don't have to tell you much about cornering or downshifting with 560 hp under your fingers, why don't we skip those parts and start with some good old-fashioned drifting to get warmed up?” The Gothamite gave a curt nod and gripped the gear shifter.  
  
“Sure.”

His very first burnout left a huge batch of rubber on the asphalt and engulfed the car in a white cloud of fumes. Clark watched it out of the side view mirror, frown between his brows, as the smell of burnt tires wafted through the window. “Can you maybe do less savage and more elegant?” His former lover scratched at a spot below the open collar of his navy polo shirt and shrugged.  
  
“Maybe.”

* * *

Drifting on wet ground was definitely more to Bruce's liking. He was quick to adapt to the car's rear wheel drive feature and applied full throttle to force the vehicle into over-steering time and time again. Next to him, Clark slid further into his seat and braced himself. “Remember that time in Bristol? The rain delay?” Bruce twisted the steering wheel with a demonic grin. “Course. Cars that can't race in the rain. As pathetic as it can get.”

Kent's fist curled around the door handle as Wayne pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The BMW went into nearly 7000 revs and skidded through another curve in a fluid motion. “You're still driving the Sprint Series from what I've heard.” It was more of a statement than a question. Bruce kept his eyes on the track. “Yeah.” Clark followed his line of view. “How's the season going for you?”  
  
They passed through a shower of water from the sprinkler system and Bruce was forced to use the windshield wipers. “Different. Lots of new rules. Takes the fun out of racing.” In a sudden bout of nostalgia, Clark put up a mocking expression. “ _Fun_ , Bruce? Have we met?” The first, real grin of the day spread out on Wayne's face. “You'll never let me live that one down.” Kent found himself also grinning. “Nope, I won't.”

Yet another couple of minutes passed, during which the Gothamite focused on drifting, and Clark on the trimmed three-day beard Bruce wore. Wayne's eyes briefly slid to the left, and he cleared his throat. “How are you? Physically?” The question prompted Kent to divert his scrutiny to the track. “Couple of rehab stunts later, it's safe to say I don't wake up with chronic pain each and every day, so that's a big plus.”

He glimpsed at his driver's profile one more time, to linger on the large, reddish scar on Bruce's jaw.  
  
“Speaking of which... that one looks painful. Headfirst through the windshield - or broken visor?”

“Crashed the Honda.”

“On the street?”

“On track.”

“Damage done?”

“Totaled.”

“I'm not talking about your ego.”  
For the first time since their meeting, Bruce actually snorted out loud with something akin to laughter.  
“Fuck you too, Kent.”

The mood seemed to have lightened up enough for Clark to switch into a more teasing notion.

“Ever been on an S1000 RR?“

“... no.”

“You could've booked a Rider's lesson with us as well, you know.”

“No biking for me in the near future.” Wayne did not bother to give more explanations, so Clark stopped the many other questions from slipping his mouth. “Are you up for a hot lap? See if you can beat the track's PB?” Appealing to the competitive nature of his ex-boyfriend did not fail to do the trick, as expected. The Gothamite simultaneously raised his chin and squared his shoulders. “Bring it on.”

In the end, Bruce missed beating the power lap by 0.21 seconds. It nevertheless earned him a round of applause from all of his fellow race experience participants of the day. Ultimately, it also led to some, for Bruce, rather awkward rounds of autographs and picture sessions with several true NASCAR fans. Once the hullabaloo around him had died down, Clark held a form under Bruce's nose.  
  
“You need to sign here, too, even if it's not an autograph.” After Wayne deftly had done as he was told, Kent stepped back and gave an unsure grin. “So... this is it then. Hope you liked it.” He awkwardly held out his hand. When Bruce gripped it, their eyes met. “Yeah, I did.” Nothing else followed, so Clark released him and put the clipboard under his arm. “Take care, Bruce. It was nice seeing you again.”

By the time the Gothamite dared to cast a final look back, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, Clark was out of sight. From where he crouched between the parked up BMWs, checking all vehicles for potential damage, the man from Kansas watched with a pensive look how his former lover get into a black sedan.

* * *

“How was it?”  
From where he was straddling his husband's lap, Tony shifted and cast an expectant look upwards through big brown eyes.  
“Palm Springs is a place that, as far as I can tell, is a conglomeration of golf courses posing as a town.”

Bruce's deadpan retort earned him a light slap to the chest.  
“Idiot. The course. The driving school.”  
Tony deliberately cooed out the final words.

“It was... nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. Nice.”

“Don't overexert yourself with the gratitude there.”  
Bruce then shifted towards the edge of the couch, grabbed Tony by the buttocks and stood up.  
“I prefer to express my gratitude upstairs if it's alright with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Completelybatty: I couldn't help myself - this commercial made me involuntarily think of that infamous 'Rebirth' heliport stun scene again: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFtUpMTs4vI :))


	16. Chapter 16

Malibu, October 3rd 2014  
  
  
“Back's hurting again?”

From where Bruce had unconsciously rubbed at his lower spine, sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen island reading something on his pad, he dropped his hands. “Little bit sore this morning.” Tony ran a palm along his broad shoulder girdle as he passed him by to go for the coffee mug that stood and waited for him.  
  
“After last night, I should be feeling sore, not you. And BMW's electronic damper control is probably the smoothest there is on this planet. You really shouldn't feel whacked out.” When Bruce remained silent, Tony took the first sip and put his cup aside to worm his hands atop a terse set of broad shoulders. “Do you want me to ask Pepper to book a short-notice appointment with the physical therapist?”

His sturdy fingers started to give a firm but gentle massage to Bruce's upper back and neck region.

“No, give it a day and it'll be good.”

“Too bad – I wanted to get on track later on.”

“We still can.”

“Nah, babe, we're not gonna wreck you further during training. But we... we could get on the dyno to max it out instead.” Tony's countenance lit up at the prospect of a tinkering afternoon at the SI garage. It was then that Bruce swiveled around on the chair until he was able to trap his husband in between his legs. “I... love you.” A multitude of emotions played upon Tony's face at the rare, blunt, and out of the blue declaration.

Before he was able to comment on it, let alone give a wisecrack, Bruce cupped his cheeks and pulled him into a drawn-out, languishing kiss. Once he blinked his surroundings back into view, Tony blew out his cheeks. “Whoa. Wow. Spill. Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?” With an enigmatic smile, Bruce slid off the bar stool and grabbed his hand. “C'mon, let's go.”

* * *

At the Stark Industries Technical Institute, the mood was productive and cheerful as always. Coming from a technical background himself, Tony Stark had always made sure to supply his personnel with the best, most innovative and comfortable tools and equipment there was. His crew loved the working environment and their benefactor, who in turn loved to get his hands dirty just the same.

For the most part, Bruce Wayne let him concede. As the head of a diversified conglomerate, he was more interested in results and hard facts rather than the actual inventive, technical progress behind it. Wayne was smart, but he very well knew he was no inventor like Stark.

Music echoed through the large workshop over the speakers, mingling with common working sounds of engines running and thunder guns being used to remove or fasten lug nuts. Tony slipped his sunglasses into the collar of his polo and threw up a victory sign at the mechanics looking his and Bruce's way. “Good morning, my beauties! We wanna do a badass dyno pull. Any free seats available at this joint?”  
  
Laughter filled the garage, then Happy Hogan peeked out from the pit underneath Chevy number 29. “Morning, bosses. For you always. Come on in.” Hogan got out, wiped his hands clean on a piece of rag, and made an inviting gesture at Bruce. “We just wrapped her up – you're free to give it a go.” Wayne nodded and went to get a pair of wireless headphones. Stark watched him go with a pensive glint until Happy nudged his side.

“He doing better?”

For a moment, Tony eyed his husband from afar, as Bruce got caught up in a talk with some former WE mechanics who had found new jobs with SW Racing. Then he shrugged and gnawed at his pinkie. “Doesn't want to be wrapped in cotton wool. Just needs some of his groove back.” Hogan nodded along and went to instruct his workers to prepare everything for the testing scenario. “Turn the fans on.”

With a whooshing sound, the electric overhead fanning system sprang to life. Wayne took his cue, came back over and slipped into the driver's seat, waiting for the sign to start. As soon as all crew members around wore suitable ear protection, Bruce and Happy exchanged thumbs-up signals. The engine came to life with a mighty roar, and its driver let it idle for a few seconds before putting his foot down for a few first spikes.

He did two mini pulls to warm up oil and coolant before glancing up.

Positioning himself in front, Tony assumed a wide stance and made some cheeky come-hither gestures. The smile on his face grew proportional to the screaming horsepower under the hood of the Chevrolet as he put his arms akimbo and watched his husband crank it up. The car shuddered every time Bruce shifted gears, wanting to surge forward with all of its barely restrained 850 horsepowers.

After two minutes, Tony gave him the time-out signal to which Bruce powered the Chevy down. “Oh yeah. Hell yeah, that was kinda juicy!” He turned to look at his chief mechanic. “Spill, Hapster. What we got?” The chief mechanic ran an oil-stained finger along the many rows of figures on the screen. “Close to 745rwhp and 705rwtq on the second run.” Upon this bit of information, Bruce's voice echoed over the speakers.  
  
“That puts her at what? 9200rpm?”  
Happy went to double-check.  
“Close to 9700rpm, Bruce.”  
  
Tony clapped along before he slipped the set of big headphones around his neck. “9200rpm is all we want to pull out of these babies. Save an engine, save the planet – that kinda thing.” Wayne scrambled out of the car with practiced ease and joined them, skimming across the readouts. “It'll still be always less than the engine's output. Drivetrain friction.” Tony all but purred and rubbed cat-like against his arm.  
  
“Oh, I just love it when you're talking shop.”  
Feeling ridiculed, Bruce's countenance darkened.  
“I may not be a genius, but I'm no fool.”  
  
Hogan glimpsed from one man to the other and rubbed his palms against the sides of his overall. “Uhh, yeah, so – you wanna go as well now, bossman?” Tony who had locked eyes with his spouse, trying to understand Bruce's sudden mood shift, nodded. “Hit me up, Hap.” Once Chevy number 19 was in position, Tony's pearly white teeth shone out from behind the windshield. “I'm ready to rock and roll!” Happy raised his thumb.  
  
“Go for it.”

Stark pressed ignition and went through the same warm-up motions as Wayne. Happy and Bruce kept an eye out on the readouts as Tony also pushed his car to the max. Eventually, Hogan gave him the signal to power down and comm'd him. “793rwhp and 680rwtq!” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “How's that much deviation possible? It's the same engine.” To his mistrusting glare, Tony was quick to climb out of the window.

“Been meddling with the camshaft a little bit, testing out various stuff. Nothing major.”

“Well, thanks for the memo.”  
  
Wayne's voice sounded faintly indignant. Tony laughed just as his fingers tried to worm themselves around Bruce's waist, but the latter drew away.

* * *

After an awkward goodbye session with Happy and his team, Tony had to hurry to follow his glum husband out to where Bruce's Camaro stood and waited. A sticker adorned the bumper of the 7.0L LS7 V8 muscle car. It read '2 liters is a soft drink, not an engine size'. Once Tony had closed the passenger door, Wayne pulled out of the parking lot. Tony wiggled in his seat and put a tentative hand on his driver's thigh.

“As soon as testing phase is over, you'll be the first to get an update.”

“Oh, course. After you've gone and cleared the field throughout the season. Yeah, great plan.”

“C'mon, Bboy, that's utter crap.”

“Yeah, just like you pimping your ride without telling me.”  
The Camaro whined up in protest as Bruce downshifted with too much vigor. Tony curled his lip.  
“Honey, I hate it when we fight.”

“Oh, we're not fighting. Not yet. I mean we're not out on track after all.” Keeping his gaze straight ahead, Bruce's eyes bore into the red light until it switched to green. A sigh to his left. “Great. Just great.” The Camaro pressed forward, tailgating an innocent white Toyota Prius like a dangerous black mamba. Tony turned his head to look at his driver with a reprimanding expression. "Stop it." Still, the Gothamite did not back off.  
  
_“Bruce!_ God-fucking-damn it!”

After a couple of seconds, the Prius then turned right, out of their path. By then, Wayne's cheeks and the visible part of his neck were covered with reddened blotches. "I'm not coming along for Kansas tonight.” His husband rolled his eyes. "Are we really playing this punishment game like a couple of high school kids?” Tony did not receive an answer for the rest of the drive. When he boarded their jet later that evening, he was alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is a dyno pull? This here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6ltd2fr9Eo (careful though, it's LOUD!)  
> rwhp = horsepower measured at the rear wheels  
> rwtq = rear wheel torque  
> rpm = revolutions per minute


	17. Chapter 17

California, 4th  October 2014

  
“Clark? Clark!”  
  
Said man stuck his head out from under the bonnet of the BMW. “Yes?” His colleague peeked around the corner. “There's someone here to see you.” Once he stepped aside, Bruce Wayne stood in the open doorway of the hangar, wearing a black leather jacket over a white shirt and an undecipherable tug around his mouth. His thumbs were hooked into the belt loops of his denims.  
  
“Oh, hi! What... what are you doing here?” Clark involuntarily brushed down his shirt. Bruce's mouth curved into a sparse smile. “About that S 1000 RR...” Realization shone back at him through bright blue eyes. “Care for a test drive then?” Wayne's eyebrows twitched ever so slightly. “If that's possible.” Clark wrung his oil-smeared fingers into a small rag he pulled from the back pocket of his jeans.  
  
“You wouldn't have bothered coming all the way down here if you weren't convinced it was.” Another smirk, more cocky and smug than before. It stirred up a sharp pang of recognition within Clark. He bit down on his bottom lip as he felt his cheeks heat up. “I'll... okay, let me see what I can do. Give me five minutes.” Leaning his shoulder against the huge metal sliding door, Bruce tilted his head. “Sure.”  
  
Less than five minutes later, Clark had gotten permission from his employer, as well as his composition back in check. “Track's free until 3 pm today, so you have about an hour to fully test her out if you like.” After he had stopped rattling off information, Bruce nodded, once, and cast him a gauging look. “Race you down the track?” His former boyfriend was bold enough to let his exasperation show by rolling his eyes.  
  
“I don't have a biker's license as you might know.”  
Bruce's grin turned rogue.  
“Don't need one for that.”  
  
He pointed at the M5 Clark had been putting the final touches to. “You're going to smoke me on that bike and you know it.” Wayne crossed his arms with a daring expression. “Humor me, Kent, it's been a while.” Wordless, the man from Kansas went to open the trunk of his BMW. Bruce was just in time to uncross his arms to catch the helmet thrown his way. “There's a suit waiting for you in the changing room - second door on the left.”

Once the Gothamite returned dressed in a Dainese Laguna Seca, a black-red-white bike parked on the sideline of the racetrack. The metallic blue M5 stood next to it, as did a pensive looking Clark Kent. Helmet in one hand and gauntlet gloves in the other, Bruce marched over to him. “Looks good.” The words were out of his mouth before Clark could stop them. Wayne glanced down. “Bit tight around the thighs, but it'll do.”

“Gained weight?”  
Incensed, Wayne removed the kickstand with force before gracefully throwing one leg over the bike.  
“Muscle mass. Better stop grinning like an idiot.”

As he stood straddling the machine and looking at the controls from close up, Clark forced himself to stop staring and cleared his throat. “I reckon I don't have to tell you how this one works.” Taking a seat Wayne's gloved fingers ran over the switches. “No.” He tapped an index finger against the fuel tank. “How much do I owe you if I squeeze her out?” Clark leaned in to watch the dashboard light up as Bruce turned the key.

“I doubt you'll bang out more than 60 miles today, even in race mode.” Their eyes met from close up. Wayne put the helmet atop the fuel tank, folded his hands upon it and grinned. “You don't know that yet.” Clark sniffled twice to get the familiar scent of Dior Homme Sport out of his nose. “Okay now, let's get this done and over with, shall we?” He was quick to pull back out of the close proximity and walked over to his car.

For the first round, they just drove next to each other to get a feel for the track. Ever so often, Clark would glimpse out of the open window to his left, to see Bruce casually riding with one hand on the handlebar, returning his gaze. When it was time to get serious, Clark wet his lips and closed the window. Bruce snapped his visor shut as well and assumed a proper driving stance.

Kent almost had a seizure upon watching him pull the front up into the air for a wheelie, as it meant Wayne had completely switched off traction control. Part of him wanted to cancel their foolish stunt, but then they were on the straight on. In an instant, the S 1000 RR surged ahead like a lightning bolt. Clark pressed his foot down hard and made the M5 howl out underneath him, but he did not manage to catch up.

When they went into the first turn, the superbike and its driver were back to idling along next to the driver's side. “Some things never change.” Kent's mumblings went unheard inside his car as he prepped himself for the second duel. In less than two minutes, all he saw from Bruce was a dark spot on the horizon, before the bike described a wide turn and pulled up along his side.

At Wayne's distinctive indications, Clark moved to roll down the window. A gloved fist stretched out into his direction. The man from Kansas mimicked his gesture and bumped him with care. Bruce nodded a nonverbal thank you before he pulled in the clutch and released throttle. The S 1000 RR then sped ahead, leaving Clark nothing to do but to watch its driver go wild in drift mode.

* * *

Sweated but satisfied, Bruce dutifully returned bike and suit after 60 minutes. He accepted Clark's offer of using the private shower cabins of BMW and returned with combed back, damp hair, and rosy cheeks twenty minutes later. When he made a move to reach for his wallet, Clark gave a stern shake of the head. “Don't you dare. This one's on the house. Consider it a promotional event.” Wayne lowered his hand. “Promoting what?”

Clark shrugged, only to palm his neck afterward. “To lure you into buying a BMW.” His ex-lover reached into his jacket once more to produce a pair of Ray-Ban's and a set of keys. “Takes a little more than that, but the bike's definitely worth thinking it over.” Kent stared at the leather and chrome Chevrolet Camaro key fob which dangled from Bruce's fingers.

Once those hazel eyes sat hidden behind the dark pair of aviator shades, the Gothamite's lips parted. “How about I make up for today with free tickets to the next race?” His opposite blinked a couple of times. “I... don't know. When would that be?” Bruce kept a straight face. “Tomorrow.” At that Clark broke into a laugh. “Impossible, but thank you.” Wayne twirled the key ring around; expression still unchanged.

“I'll have some tickets on your name at the track's office should you change your mind.“

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself, I always need visuals (especially hot ones like these):
> 
> The bike: http://bmwmcmag.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/S1000RR-2014-05.jpg  
> The race suit: http://www.quintamoto.com/producto/Fotos/laguna-secagrand.jpg


	18. Chapter 18

Kansas Speedway, Kansas, October 5th  2014  
  


“How are you feeling?”  
Tony's question came out muffled from where he was busy fastening his shoes.  
“Good. Capable.”

It was the start of NASCAR's Contender Rounds and the first real race for Bruce after his bike accident. It was also the first race to welcome Jim Gordon back in his original place as his spotter. As soon as he was ready, Stark then stood up to wrap his arms around his husband's neck from behind. “Let's go out for dinner together afterward. Just you and me. My treat.”  
  
Tony leaned over further to capture Bruce's lips in an upside down kiss. “I've already got plans for dessert, too.” At the affection in both his voice and caress, the Gothamite felt himself mellowing out. They had not spoken about what had happened, ever since Bruce arrived in Kansas just three hours prior to the race.

“Hey. Uh – sorry! Sorry for... interrupting!”

Both Tony and Bruce looked up. Clark Kent stood in front of their hauler's open door, wearing black-rimmed glasses, a checkered button-down shirt, and a shy smile. “Just wanted to wish you guys good luck.” Wayne was fast enough to hide his surprise behind an instant frown. “When did you get here?” It was more of a rhetorical question, but Clark was pure enough to give a real answer.  
  
“Ma actually wanted to go see the race, and seeing I had... tickets, well, I couldn't refuse her wish.”   
Bruce hummed, noncommittally. Tony straightened up, clicking his tongue.   
“Speaking of wishes – thanks for that, but we don't need luck, we've got talent. Right, babe?”   
  
He made a point of leaving his hand upon Bruce's shoulder, squeezing and caressing the area. Clark turned around to look at something in the back before he focused back on his former lover. “I know. If he's half as good as he was on our track, then I don't doubt both of you are going to be on the podium.” That got Tony to perk up. His hand clenched around the thick fire suit, even if Wayne did not stir.  
  
_“Your track?”_  
Kent nodded with circumspect motions and pushed his glasses higher.  
“At the BMW Driving School.”  
  
Under his hand, Tony felt Bruce go rigid before he made a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, but you can't really... compare apples to oranges and all that.” An awkward silence erupted until Clark cleared his throat and looked around one more time. “Well, I gotta go. We've got really great seats. You make sure to give those guys a hard time.” A little wave, then he was gone, heading for a petite, elderly woman who stood a few feet away.

They conversed briefly, then she raised her hand in greeting over to where Bruce had poked his head out of the hauler. Once he turned back inside, Bruce found Tony staring at a spot on the wall, jaw set tight and unblinking. “About that...” Stark shook himself out of his reverie and held up a hand. “No, no. It's fine, whatevs. I... trust you, okay?” He smiled at his husband, a little too wide and cheerful, before skipping past him.

In no time, Tony had slipped on his helmet and left the motorhome.

* * *

“Am I hustling the car too good in practice to camouflage how fucked up we actually are here today?”  
  
It was round 235, and Tony's dripping sarcasm met with stony silence over the comm. “Freaking 16 car just brake-checked the whole field. That's completely fucked up.” James Rhodes squinted and pulled his headphones tighter around his ears. Next to him sat Jim Gordon, looking like he had never been away, except for the different pair of glasses he wore, and had his own driver and his troubles to deal with.

“Bruce - the 13... right with you... right with you... inside...”

Wayne responded with an air of much-faked buoyancy. “My lifelong dream. To run with the 13 again.” Towards the final laps, Tony's aggressive driving got him clobbered in a multi-car crash on the backstretch that brought out the eighth and final caution of the race. It all started when one of the drivers rear-ended Oliver Queen, who in turn clipped Tony's Chevy in the process, and sent him into the wall exiting turn 4.

“Fuck this! Caution's out! Tones?”  
  
Rhodes slammed a palm on his desk as he lost connection with the rear bumper's cam when it blew out. His best friend comm'd in. “Yeah, so how about I'm gonna fuck it up even further.” Even as he was going down, Stark made sure to also collect Queen's Toyota amongst six other drivers. With a broken rear axle and his body kit tattered across the track, Tony then had to prematurely drop out of the race.

His posture was tense as he yanked off the helmet and reporters shoved their mics into his face. “There’s so much you can’t control. We wanted to try to control the things that we could. Kansas was supposed to play to our strengths, but we'll see. We'll see when we get to the next round. Puts a lot of pressure on us next week and the week after. We've gotta be on our game at Charlotte and Talladega.”

James welcomed him in the box with an apologetic tug around the mouth and a clap on the shoulder. “At least Bruce's still on it. He's gonna be racing that Allen kid hard.” To everybody's surprise, Tony did not want to sit down and watch the cars going after the pace car. He even negated the pair of headphones Lucius held out in his direction and snatched an old Stark Industries Racing cap off Rhodes' desk to put it on.

“He better. He'd be dumb to not to. Got handed pole on a silver platter there.”

Pennyworth threw him a glance that went unnoticed behind Tony's back.

When Bruce beat rookie Barry Allen to the finish line, it was by .480 seconds, and subsequently pulling off a splendid first place. “It ain't over till it's over, guys.” The giddy laughter of Jim Gordon resounded over the comm, but the driver in question had other things on his mind. By that time, Wayne's back was practically screaming at him with each intake of breath, and every bump in the road made it worse.

Opposed to checking into Victory Lane straightaway, Bruce steered the Chevy into the garage, away from the commotion and partying fans outside. He turned off the engine and snapped his visor up. “Alfred, can you...” His voice was strained over the comm. “... can you get me a couple of Naproxen and some water?” The team manager started to remove his headphones while sharing a knowing look with Lucius Fox.

“Of course, Master Wayne. I'll be down there in a minute.”

Soon after, the concerned faces of Pennyworth and Fox approached Chevy number 29 and peeked through the open window at the still, sweated countenance inside. “Should we call the medics, Bruce?” At Fox sonorous voice, the Gothamite opened his eyes. He had already loosened the anchor and tether parts of the HANS-device and reached out with a glove-free hand to grasp the requested painkillers and the bottle of water.

“No. Just help me get out, I gotta... gotta make it over to Victory Lane – and preferably not on all fours.” Bruce popped three pills and washed them down, emptying the whole 0.5 l bottle in one sitting. “Where's Tony?” Alfred looked almost embarrassed at his question. “He has left the premises half an hour ago.” Bruce pulled off the other glove and threw it at the windshield. His fingers wiped over his sweated face.

“Whatever. Just give me... five more minutes.”   
  
Once the painkillers started to kick in, they manhandled him out of the Chevrolet together. Due to his slightly dehydrated state and empty stomach after a solid three hours of nonstop racing, Wayne more or less stumbled into the highly frequented area that was still buzzing with reporters and fans alike. “There he is – the man of the hour! Bruce Wayne – how do you feel winning the jackpot at today's Hollywood Casino 400?”

Sweat beaded on Bruce's upper lip and forehead. “Huh?” He swayed on the spot and blinked against a flaring dizzy spell. The reporter beamed up at him with her most telegenic smile. “What a comeback – tell us: How did you do it? Not racing for weeks, and then – pole!?” Seeing double, Bruce squinted at her and slightly shook his head to get a clear vision. “Uh, yeah, t'was... good. The car... was... uh,... good.”

The cheeky blonde grinned into the camera. “Looks like someone here already has had a post-race celebration of the boozy kind.” She continued to tease and drill him further until Fox stepped in with a stern look and put a steadying hand on his driver's shoulders.

“It was truly a wild race from start to finish. The boys and the crew did good today, especially under the given conditions. Bruce's victory was hard-fought. It also makes Talladega a lot easier, that is for sure.” He gave a firm squeeze when he felt the younger man next to him wobble on the spot. It prompted Wayne to stop rubbing his eyes frequently with the back of his hand.

“Now, if you excuse us, there's a lot of things we need to wrap up.”  
The reporter nodded at Fox and turned back to her camera.  
“Congratulations to Bruce Wayne from SW Racing and his ticket to the Eliminator Round of the Chase!”

* * *

Post-race meeting found Tony Stark nowhere to be seen. James Rhodes kept on stealing glances at his mobile, only to shrug at the looks of his team that got thrown his way. “I don't know either, man. He turned his phone off.” After 15 minutes of recap, which Bruce spent in spaced-out horizontal, team SW Racing decided to call it quits. When Alfred Pennyworth leaned over to touch his protege's shoulder, Wayne stirred.  
  
“Meeting's over?” His voice was slurred from medication and fatigue. The elder man looped an arm around his upper body. “Indeed it is. I am going to get you somewhere quiet now so that you can get proper rest.” Bruce did not even protest upon being steered out of the garage and into a waiting car backstage. Happy Hogan had offered to drive them over to where the team would be staying until the next race.

Glimpsing into the backseat where Wayne was stretched out lengthways, one arm thrown over his eyes, the mechanic looked at their team manager on the passenger seat. “Got a text from Pepper. Tony's at the workshop.” When Pennyworth made a shushing gesture, Hogan turned down his voice to a whisper. “Shouldn't we tell him?” Alfred turned and ran his eyes over the Gothamite's still form.  
  
“It can wait for time being.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

Kansas, 6th  October 2014

  
Bruce slept through the rest of the evening; all the way from 6 pm to late afternoon the other day. The space next to him in the hauler's master bedroom was still untouched, and so after a shower and quick meal, he went to seek out his missing husband. Instead of Tony, he ran into a distraught looking Pepper Potts. “Any idea where he is?” She rubbed at some faint specks of mascara under tired blue eyes.

“Pulling a death split most likely.”  
Seeing her suppress a yawn, Bruce touched her shoulder.  
“I think you should call it a day. Get some rest, I'll take care of this.”

Loud rock music blared over at him even from far away. The door to the workshop was not locked, much to Bruce's surprise. Not even bothering to knock at the current noise level, he involuntarily winced as the merciless guitar riffs to Metallica's 'Seek and Destroy' screamed into his face and ears. Looking around, he saw half of Tony's body hidden under the mutilated Chevrolet.

When Bruce went over to turn down the volume of the battered looking boombox in the corner, those legs began to move and scrape around on the concrete floor. “Don't turn off my music, Pep.” When no answer followed, Tony gave a dramatic sigh and rolled out on the car creeper. He found himself peeking at a pair of large, black sneakers instead of delicate, black stilettos. “Why are you working here since midnight?”  
  
Tony pointed a spanner at his mangled Chevy. “It's not gonna repair itself now is it?” Bruce leaned against the workbench. “Why else?” His eyes roamed around the mess in the garage, only to narrow at the sight of four empty Smirnoff alcopop bottles on the shelf. “To keep me busy, occupied.” Without meeting his eye, Tony then scrambled to his feet with so much vigor that some muscles in his lower back popped.

He turned around and rummaged through one of the many toolboxes. “To give you enough time and space to go for drinks with your ex, too, maybe.” Hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “It's not my fault I ran into Clark.” Tony put the spanner aside to grab a pair of pliers instead. He let out a scoffing laugh. “No, you're right. It's mine actually. Karma's truly a bitch sometimes, eh?”

Bruce watched him jab and torture the mangled rear spoiler for the longest time. Then he forced his jaw to unclench. “I didn't mention it because it doesn't mean a thing.” Stark cast a bold glance upwards. “Ho-hum... Or does it?” His husband shook his head while pulling a face. “Stop vagueing around here, Tony.” Said man threw the pliers aside with such venom that the tool bounced off the concrete floor and skidded away.

“I'm not vague, I'm _pissed,_ Bruce, in case that wasn't clear.” Wayne nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “No, that's actually very clear. It's clear way beyond the point where I can't help but find you ridiculous.” His tone and stance got Tony to shrug with faux ennui. “I've been called worse.” At that, Bruce outright sneered at him. “Yeah? Like what? A sore loser maybe?”

There was a split second in which Tony's hands gripped the spoiler of his Chevrolet hard. It was quickly replaced by a condescending grin. “Oh, I'm sorry! So fucking sorry that I haven't congratulated you on the first time you raced real hard this season – and just because your precious Clarkie's watching.” In return, Bruce Wayne's face turned real sour. “Know what? Go fuck yourself!”   
  
His flaring nostrils and heated cheeks were met with a crude snort from Tony Stark.  
“Why? Aren't you up for the job anymore? Am I encountering competition even in that field now, too?”   
When Bruce turned and stormed out, he made sure to slam the door shut with all his might.

* * *

The workshop was in possession of -what Pepper always called- a ratty couch. It was made out of real leather, had fissures and cigarette burn holes everywhere, and accompanied Tony almost his whole life. Fueled by enough liquid courage and running on more than minimal sleep, Tony lay sprawled out on said sofa and twirled Steve's card in his hands around and around. Eventually, he mustered up enough courage to dial.

“Rogers?”

“Hi. Uh, this is... it's Tony. Hi.”

A little pause.

“Hey! Big surprise, I... didn't expect a call so soon.” Steve sounded hesitant, and Tony actually sat up straighter. “Don't really have that much news actually, but...” Racking his intoxicated brain for something convincing to tell, he squinted into the semi-dark. “I know a guy currently pursuing his doctorate in aerospace engineering, and he said he'd be onto something. 3D printed stuff. Could become real. I'll... uh... keep you posted.”

“That sounds great, Tony, thanks.” Both fell silent, not knowing what else to say. Eventually, Steve made an effort. “So what are you doing, besides racing and picking up people at hospitals?” “Not people, just my husband.” Part of Tony did not want to want to delve into that certain topic; part of him enjoyed hearing the words roll off his tongue, just like the instant stupefied moment that set in on the other end.

“Oh. You and... and Wayne then?”   
  
Steve sounded semi-judgmental to Tony's ears. “Yeah, it...uh... works. Who'd've thought.” The words 'If only I could stop doubting my husband and subsequently drinking more than healthy' never made it past Tony's lips. He cleared his throat. “Other than that, I'm doing okay I guess. Fucked up Kansas, and got Charlotte and Talladega up on my schedule next. You guys?” Steve slightly cleared his throat.

“I'm not racing anymore, ever since Bucky's accident. Peggy understood. The rest of the guys, too.”

“Oh. Okay. Okay, yeah. Course.”

“But even in Camping World Truck, the season's almost over. I'll... keep a look out for your standings.”

When another pause set in, Tony took a deep breath.

“Steve?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Why didn't'cha wanna marry me?”

“P... pardon?”  
“Back then. What did I do wrong?”  
“You... what makes you think that?”

“What else would it have been?”  
“I guess I just wasn't... ready for such a serious commitment.”  
“Mhm.”

“That doesn't mean it was your fault, Tony. I was... am... not, uh, mature enough if you will.”  
“Bruce is three years younger than you.”  
“... okay?”

“Sorry. Sorry bout that. You shouldn't have to justify your decision. S'okay.” With each new word, Tony slid back down into the leather couch. “Tony I...” Some commotion in the back of Steve's current surroundings erupted. “Listen I really gotta go now, t'was... nice talking to you, okay? I'll be there if anything comes up. Just give me a call.” His former lover sniffed. “Sure. Sure will. Bye, Steve-O.”

After staring at the workshop's ceiling for the longest time, Tony eventually fell into a dreamless sleep.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Kansas, 7th  October 2014

  
The couple only met again the next evening at the private airfield's lounge, where they were informed their jet would have to wait for clearance due to severe weather alerts. Dropping his bag in between his feet, Tony scowled behind his sunglasses and slipped into a chair two seats away from his stone-faced husband. “Stuck in Kansas. Fuckin fantastic.” When nothing followed his remark, Tony scoffed and jumped back to his feet.

Bruce's eyes followed him as he marched over to have a word with the present staff and the on-site dispatcher. Stark argued and gestured between him and the Cessna Citation X outside on tarmac for the longest time. Eventually, Tony returned and grabbed his cabin baggage off the floor. “We're taking off now. C'mon.” He still wore his shades, and his tone was clipped enough for Bruce to not try and bother starting a conversation.

He also caught a whiff of the cinnamon flavored nicotine gum Tony had not used in months.

Aboard the Cessna, Bruce threw his bag on the seat across from him, preventing Tony from occupying it. Stark outright went for the kitty corner seat and busied himself setting up the built-in touchpad with his earplugs. After 45 minutes in the air, during which Bruce had sullenly kept his gaze out of the window, and Tony listened to his music with eyes closed, the speakers rustled, and the voice of their captain piped up.

“Gentlemen, due to storms in the area, we have to divert to BNA.”  
  
With a frown, Tony took out his earphones and looked at the virtual change of route on the pad. "What's going on?” Bruce's hands tightened from where they had cupped the armrest of his leather seat. “Thunderstorms. We're going via Nashville.” As if on cue, the first strikes of lightning illuminated the cabin's interior, followed by heavy rumbling thunder. It prompted the jet to jump and dip slightly.

With a ding, the 'fasten seatbelt' signs popped up. The Cessna, a SuperMid bizliner, shuddered as the pilots maneuvered it through a batch of heavy rain. When turbulence increased by the minute, Bruce forced his breathing to remain steady and looked out into the darkened skies. He inconspicuously put a hand to his temple to wipe at his forehead and felt his fingers come off damp.

Along the leading edge of the wing, Bruce then saw tiny, rapid bits of light. “Raindrops. Hitting the wing and discharging static. Lots of electricity in the air tonight.” Tony's voice was suddenly much closer than before. To go with it, a warm hand found its way upon Bruce's cold and clammy fingers only moments later. “Relax, nothing's gonna happen.” Incensed at being labeled, the Gothamite tried to draw his hand away.

“I know that.” Nevertheless, Tony's grip stayed strong. “You don't look like you do.” Bruce swallowed with difficulty. “Just leave me alone.” Angered at his physical reaction, Bruce tried to get the feel of being winded back under control. Stark began to thumb the back of his hand. “You never told me you were afraid of flying in bad weather.” He squinted in fascination as a lightning bolt cracked close to the jet.

Wayne leaned his head back and swallowed again; his gulps for air more frequent than before. “Cause... it's... stupid.” Stark watched his Adam's apple bob. “I wouldn't have pressed for take-off if I knew.” Tony sounded semi-regretful even as Bruce gave a brisk shake of the head. “Course you would have. Course you would.” Wayne reopened his eyes and exhaled deeply before he dropped his chin to his chest. “Even more so.”

The answer came out in between clenched teeth. It was then that Tony unbuckled and slid down in front of him, cupping his knees. “Babe, we gotta stop this – whatever it is. It's not what I want. It's not what you want, too, presumably.” Tony's thumbs started to knead and massage firm circles into Bruce's inner thighs. “That's fucking arrogant to assume.” Wayne's voice still held a slight, shaky touch.

Tony glimpsed up as his hands went a little higher, towards the inseam of Bruce's jeans. “I _am_ arrogant, for starters. And as for fucking...” The zipper came down with a low noise. Bruce's eyes darted towards the cockpit's door just as Tony spoke up again, sotto voce. “I'm fairly certain you'd want what I want.” Wayne swallowed. “I...” Nimble fingers found and freed their goal from underneath soft cotton stretch boxer briefs.

“Yes, you. All about you now. You need to relax. And be a little quiet, okay?” The cabin got illuminated by another flash of light. “Only St. Elmo's Fire now.” Tony's breath was warm around the base of his shaft. “Relax.” When he fully took him into his mouth, Bruce had to bite his own fist to suppress a groan. With all of Tony's most superb, oral qualities on display, he gave one of the best blowjobs in the past few weeks.

Far too soon, release washed over Bruce in shuddering waves, causing him to arch his back and claw at the armrests. After he was done sucking him clean, Tony rose to his feet, threw Wayne's bag off the opposite chair and slumped into it. He made a point of massaging and stretching out his legs. “Yikes, I'm getting too old for this shit. Either I need new kneecaps, or you need to come faster. Oh, to pick the lesser evil...”  
  
His chest still heaving deep breaths, Wayne only rose an eyebrow that spoke volumes. Tony mimicked it. “But the Mile High Club member look's a good one on you.” It was not long after Tony had buckled back in and slipped into a light sleep that Bruce wanted to make use of the turbulence-free period of flight and use the lavatory. He stopped at the sight of a small piece of paper at his feet and bent down to pick it up.

About to throw it into the little dustbin next to the seat, Bruce caught a glimpse at the lettering.  
_'Steven G. Rogers. 248 E 35th St_ _Brooklyn, NY 11203, phone_ _347-555-1234'  
_ The Gothamite stared long and hard at the little card.

His eyes flew over to the innocent looking face of his husband sleeping next to him in the seat, and to the ring on his left hand which rested on his chest. With grim determination, Bruce crumpled the card and let it disappear inside his own pocket.

* * *

Charlotte Motor Speedway, Concord, 11th  October 2014  


The race started around 7:30 in the evening without any bigger complications. With smooth, heel-toe shifting, Tony pulled out of gear as the clutch opened and pushed into to the next gear, tapping the brakes to set the pads against the rotors to ease and quicken throttle-brake transition. “I just looked at the big screen, and Alf looks nervous. That makes me nervous. Platypus?”

James Rhodes cast their team manager a glance. “I think Alfred would just like to see a decent finish from both of you guys.” His friend smirked behind the wheel of his Chevy. “Ah, please, this whole 'nice guys finish last' schtick isn't ours anyhow. Right, Bboy?” Some rustling over the comm. “No comment.” Tony grinned and shifted gears again. “... is also a comment, thank you very much.”

The eighth and final caution of the race flew with two laps to go after one of the other drivers blew an engine. When the race eventually restarted, Tony shot ahead to win the 334 laps like a pro, followed by his husband, and Oliver Queen in the third place. Stark whooped enthusiastically over the team comm. “This is more like it, boys! Way to go, thank you, thank you – the whole team. Love you, guys!”

Things then happened fast during the obligatory cool-down lap after the race. From where the Stark-Waynes had been driving close in a row, Queen's Toyota veered out to pass Wayne's Chevrolet in an attempt to get into pit lane before him. Not careful enough, the rookie inadvertently rear-ended Tony, who in turn tagged the wall. Bruce's expletive-filled mutterings filled the comm right after.

“I'm gonna kick his fucking ass when I get out!”

Jim Gordon put his headphones back on and tried his best to talk him down. "Not destroyed, not destroyed, just pushed in. I see zero damage to the exhaust. Not enough damage to roll out the backup car, Bruce. We can fix this." However, Bruce Wayne was not interested in fixing anything. Instead, he got even more furious when he found out that it happened as Tony already had his seat belt unbuckled.

As soon as Stark had pulled off his helmet, he exposed a bloodied nose from where he had bumped head-forward into the dashboard. Medics were by his side in an instant, even as Tony grinned and threw up a victory sign on the big screen. Stark then excused himself and went to hurry after his irate husband who was zeroing in on Queen. The two led a conversation which seemed to make Wayne even angrier.

As Queen put on his cap, proceeding to turn around in mid-talk, Bruce reached out to slap it off, and all hell broke loose. To the cheers and hoots of the crowd, they started to push and yell at each other at the same time. Tony broke out into a jog, clapping the spotter's shoulder as he passed past him, heading for the scene. “Jimbo, you're gonna have to lend me a hand with our little hellraiser there, c'mon!”

With Tony's and Jim's grip hooked tight around each of his arms, NASCAR officials and crew members escorted a fuming Bruce Wayne back to his trailer. The reporters around went to get Queen's statement. From where he stood looking shaken but tried to appear casual, the man from Sterling City shrugged.

“I wasn't trying to wreck him, we just made contact. Look, I don’t want to ruin anyone’s day. If there's contact, then that's racing. And that's what happened today. Will those guys race me hard or harder than others? They absolutely will. That's just part of it. Can't fault 'em for that.”

Meanwhile, an ice-pack had shown up seemingly out of nowhere and gotten pushed into Tony's hands. He pressed it to the bridge of his nose and stepped up to the agitated crowd of reporters who longed for his opinion on the whole incident. “As far as I'm concerned Queen's got to pay the consequences. It's total crap. The kid's just doing stuff way over his head. If you’re going to drive like that, you better be willing to fight.”

Stark patiently gave the press another round of perfect drivel before he went to their hauler and locked the door behind him. From where Bruce stood in the lounge area, he swiveled around upon Tony's entry. He watched him putting the slushy ice pack into the nearby fridge. "Had fun playing the Kevin Costner to my Whitney Houston?" Stark sounded amused, albeit slightly nasal. It prompted Bruce to bristle with undisguised ire.

"The race's over and he's running into cars on the cool down lap! He comes down pit road and drives right into your side - that's inexcusable! That little dipshit!" When his husband came to stand in front of him, Wayne's grip was full of rough affection as he pulled Tony into an embrace, albeit mindful of his injury. “I'm going to fight anyone that tries to get too close to you. I'm fucking serious!”

Stark smirked into the Nomex material of Wayne's fire suit. “Appreciate your concern my love, but you can bet that NASCAR's senior competition VP will have officials review what took place to determine what penalties are gonna be issued.” When Bruce's strong grip did not ease up, Tony started to squirm. “And now leggo – you're crushing me to death here and I gotta pee.”

While Tony disappeared into the bathroom and locked the door, Bruce's eyes flew to his StarkPhone on the table. An ear out to where the flushing of a toilet got replaced with the sound of running water from the shower, he unlocked the dark screen. A picture greeted him; a selfie taken during one of their cruises on his now gone Honda. Bruce hesitated and looked at their happy, flushed faces topped by windswept hair.

Wanting to switch it back off and put it away, his thumb brushed over a sensor which pulled up the recent calls list.

One number stood out in between calls from and to saved contacts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen's statement is an actual quote from NASCAR driver Brad Keselowski.


	21. Chapter 21

Alabama, 13th October 2014  
  
  
Over the weekly reports, Pepper and Alfred received the official NASCAR review via mail a few days later. “They are going to fine Bruce $ 25,000 for violating section 12-4.9: 'Behavioral penalty/involved in a post-race incident'.” The redhead uncrossed her legs and stood up to scan the document for processing. “I will go tell him – and get his signature.” Pennyworth threw her a thankful glance and palmed the receiver of his phone.

“It is a good thing Master Bruce can never refuse you anything, Pepper.”  
  
File tucked under her arm, the redhead grinned. “At a high price, Alfred. Took me several trips on that infernal machine of his to get this far.” As expected, Wayne remained blasé about the money, and deftly signed the papers Pepper held under his nose. The only thing that got his eyes to light up was when he learned how Queen got fined $ 50,000 and placed on probation for the next four Sprint Cup Series championship events.

“One prick less to care about.”  
Bruce hooked the barbell back upon its rack and sat up straight on the bench.  
“As for the other...”

Pepper cast him a confused if a bit scolding look at that and leaned against one of the weight racks of the private gym room. “Please don't tell me there's more trouble brewing on the horizon. Even _we_ are subsequently going to run out of 'Get out of jail' cards.” Her eyes traveled all over his sweated face and t-shirt. Bruce responded with a shrewd grin and reached for his water bottle. “No worries.”

She politely stepped aside when he stood up to rack up yet more plates to the bar. Footsteps from behind then made both of them turn around. “What's going on? Are you spotting him, Pep, or is Cyclone here showing off his pectoral girth again?” Tony, wearing a beanie plus khaki-colored sweatpants and t-shirt, bounced on his heels and threw the towel he was carrying over his shoulder.

His assistant scrunched up her freckled nose. “Cyclone?” Her eyes flew over to Bruce, but he kept his face blank. Stark passed by with a gentle nudge to her shoulder. “C'mon Potts, don't tell me you never watched American Gladiators.” She made a point in clipping the pen to the folder with a snap. “Not as diligent as you did, apparently.” With a final glimpse at her phone Pepper then inclined her head.

“I guess I shall leave you alpha boys in your natural habitat for now.” Before she was gone, the redhead remained standing in the doorway. “Oh, wait, no - Tony, there's one more thing. An Albert Manero from Limbitless Solutions called earlier. He asks for you to call him back as soon as possible.” A row of white teeth shone back at her. “Wilco, Ma'am. I'll deal with that later on.”

Bruce, who had witnessed the exchange without any outward reaction, went to bench press another set. As soon as Pepper's clicking steps had faded away, Tony's attention switched to watching his husband. “Can I work in with you for a couple of sets?” As soon as he was done, Bruce snatched his towel off and made an inviting gesture at the bench. “Be my guest.”  
  
With a little frown at the weights on each side, Tony lowered himself backward and got into position. “Haven't benched 190 in a while. Good thing I warmed up.” The bar came off its handles with a metallic rattle. Stark blew out his cheeks upon the first two reps. During the third repetition, his eyes flew over to where his husband stood behind the rack. “... whoa, B-ruce...” Wayne loomed above, a devilish glint in his eyes.  
  
“Too heavy for you?”  
Tony's arms started to shake some more.  
“Ngh...”  
  
Instead of supporting him, Bruce watched him struggle for a couple of seconds. Having lost momentum, Tony was fighting a losing battle against gravity. “I... might... need...” His wrists started to buckle. Before the heavy iron bar could crush his windpipe, two strong arms reached out and took most of the weight from atop his chest. While Bruce put it safely back into the holder, Tony's panting echoed through the room.

It took him ten more seconds until he had composed himself enough to sit up again. “What the... what the fuck was that for?” Wayne threw him an angelic look full of innocence. “I just wanted to see if you could make it or not. Sometimes it takes a little push in the right direction to... man up.” Rubbing his left rotator cuff in irritation, Tony watched him go to do some unassisted chin-ups. "You don't say."

* * *

Showered and fueled by a sumptuous lunch, Bruce put his post-workout protein shake aside and went on tackling the business part of his life. Tony had gone off to work on some kinks of the cover on his car's alternator with Hogan. Half an hour later, after approving and dismissing requests, offers and proposals made by service contractors, Bruce pulled up an in-private browsing window and started typing.

_'NASCAR Camping World Truck Series Crash'_

_'James Buchanan Barnes accident'_

_'Albert Manero Limbitless Solutions'_

_'Steve Rogers'_

His hand hovered over the phone's receiver in his separate room of the hauler's office for the longest time. Eventually, Bruce did pick up the phone and dialed. “Yes, erm, good afternoon. I'm interested in making a purchase. Yes. Yes, I already have.” Receiver wedged between ear and shoulder, Bruce scribbled along bits and pieces of the information presented to him on the other end. "I see, yeah. Two weeks is no problem."  
  
Eyes planted on the main entrance of the hauler, he leaned back in his office chair.  
  
“One last question: Does it come in black?”

 


	22. Chapter 22

Talladega Superspeedway, Alabama, 19th  October 2014

  
Ever since NASCAR had announced changes to the knockout format of Talladega, the pressure on drivers and their teams had increased tenfold.

Before things could really get serious at the Final Contender Round, two rounds of five minutes each had to be absolved, preferably as the fastest car on track. While Tony was the fastest in the first practice session with a time of 47.788 and a speed of 200 mph, Bruce was the fastest in the final practice session with a time of 49.056 and a speed of 195 mph.

Barry Allen made it through the first round on good time but got disallowed after the oil tank encasement of his Toyota was found to be improperly installed. The Stark-Waynes were standing outside their cars, chatting with their crew about Allen's misfortune while sipping on isotonic drinks and getting their bodies ready for a fast 188 laps. Tony was just stretching out his quadriceps when Lucius Fox approached him.

“What up, Lou? You're looking kinda sour there.”  
Fox did not return his grin. Tony stopped and shook out his legs.  
“We got a problem. You've been relegated to the back of the field for an alternator change.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
Tony immediately cast a glance over to James Rhodes and Happy Hogan, who stared back at him, equally shocked. “The fuck is going on here? Inspections said it was going to be fine!” Behind his Ray-Bans, Bruce's gaze remained unreadable as he threw his empty bottle into a trashcan and sauntered closer. “Still better than being disallowed like Allen. You're just gonna have to drive faster than the rest.”

His mouth quirked into the ghost of a smirk. “Except me of course.” Too caught up being irritated at everything in sight, Tony paid him no mind other than a dismissive wave of a hand, still focused on Fox. “Tell them to check the maintenance record log again. This is an outrage!” Their crew chief listened to something Alfred Pennyworth was just telling him over the comm before he addressed his livid driver.

“You either start in the back or you don't start at all, I'm sorry. For now, we will have to play along.” It was then Bruce took off his shades and placed a palm on his husband's neck. “Focus, Tony. This is Talladega – anything is possible.” For a brief moment, the Gothamite looked like he was about to kiss him. Instead, he settled for a less intimate, firm squeeze of Tony's nape. “You got this, okay?” Their eyes met.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I'm a sucker for heavy fuel situations.”

Bruce looked like he was about to say something, but it morphed into a tight-lipped, trademark smile. Around them, the commotion then began to increase. Tony squinted over at the glistening asphalt. As he dug for his gloves, he leaned in once more. “I need a good, hearty dose of you and your nekkid, marvelous ass after this is done. Make a note.” Wayne's left eyebrow twitched. “Do you now.” Walking to their cars, Tony shrugged.  
  
“If you have better plans...”  
Right before he disappeared behind his helmet, Bruce inclined his head just slightly.  
“I might be able to pencil you in.”  
  
They parted with a peculiar combo of endearments that involved Tony's one-finger salute, and Bruce's right hand forming an L on his visor.

Like a true fighter, Stark made it all the way from the back to 7th position by the second half of the race. He would even have been able to reach for top three if it had not been for the race going past its advertised distance and into overtime. It resulted in a Big One on the backstretch that affected 11 cars, including Stark's 19 Chevrolet. By that time, Bruce was ahead of the current race leader and assumed the lead.

He managed to win the race with the pack behind him stacked up in one giant mess of metal and rubber.

Tony was disgruntled at having been offed, but much to everybody's relief, neither he nor his car had suffered any major damage. While Bruce patiently went through Victory Lane and its standard, press junket hassle, Tony went back to their hauler. When Wayne arrived, it was to a luxurious shower and make-out session, followed by a lengthy romp in between the sheets.

* * *

The sound of a phone ringing cut through the quiet at some point. Genius mind always quick to be up and running, Tony immediately identified it as the one in Bruce's office. Hopping into his boxer shorts, he was determined to catch it before it would wake the still sleeping man next to him. His eyes flew along the neat desk of his husband and came to rest on the only framed picture on it.

It showed Bruce dipping his husband during their Las Vegas wedding kiss. Grinning at the memories, Tony picked up the receiver. “Yes, hello?” An equally cheerful, male voice he did not know immediately spoke up. “BMW Motorcycles USA, good afternoon. Am I speaking to Mister Bruce Wayne?” A dark eyebrow rose. “... yeah.” “Excellent. Mister Wayne, my name is Michael Spencer and I have a few updates about your purchase.”  
  
Tony sunk down into the leather chair, an eye out for the bedroom, and flipped one leg over the other.  
  
“Shoot.”

 


	23. Chapter 23

Alabama, 20th  October 2014

  
When team SW Racing took their two haulers en route to Virginia right after the race, one of the large motorhomes had both of their drivers on board. Instead of chartering a jet, as usual, Tony had cheerfully decided on spending the roughly four and a half hours on the road. Not knowing where his cheeky mood had come from, Bruce soon found himself not complaining; seeing they had not left the bed ever since.

“You think Queen did it?”  
  
From where a fingertip circled across his bare chest, Bruce popped an eye open. “The alternator change?” Next to him, an equally bare Tony nodded and continued to trace invisible patterns on his skin. “Unlikely. It'd be too high of a risk, and he's already on NASCAR's blacklist.” The circling stopped for a moment. “I could've sworn those configurations were correct. My math is always correct.”

Two hazel eyes slid sideways to glimpse at him. “No, it's not. Remember the second race in Daytona? You were way off.” Tony pulled a face. “That was the day after your birthday, and I was drunk as fuck.” His caresses stopped. “So you're saying I fucked it up myself? That it?” Bruce folded his arms behind his head and stared at the dark screen of the flat screen television hanging on the wall across from their bed.

“The worse a camshaft sensor works, the easier it causes the alternator to drain. Anything you're bound to work from there is gonna be shit. And, like in your case yesterday, gets you nothing but an also-ran.” His husband propped himself up on his elbow. “Is that so?” Wayne's eyes flickered over at him and came to rest at the sight of a happy trail peeking out from under the sheets. “Like I said: I may be no genius, but I'm no fool.”

With a groan, Tony sat up, completely unashamed of his state of undress, and slipped his legs over the mattress. “You're still not over that issue are you?” The corner of Bruce's mouth imitated a shrug. “All I'm saying is that's what you get for messing with the camshaft in the first place. What did you call it? Karma?” Tony regarded him for a few heartbeats before he went to grab a water from the built-in mini fridge.  
  
“It's a good thing _you_ are such a sucker for justice, honesty, and retribution, Bboy.”

The Gothamite let his gaze roam all over Tony's naked body as he stood and drank from the bottle. “It's hard speaking about virtues when I just had that glorious dick of yours in my mouth.” Tony all but sputtered, causing the water to dribble down his chin and chest. Bruce's smirk turned into one of smug satisfaction. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Tony put the empty bottle aside.  
  
“Is it? Hard I mean?”  
Wayne slung the cover aside.  
“Come here and I show you.”

* * *

Virginia, 25th  October 2014  
  


“What do you mean, _canceled?_ I didn't cancel _anything!”_  
On agitated feet, Bruce paced around the carpeted floors of the hauler.  
“We agreed upon delivery date being the 27th, and now you're telling me there is no order?!”

More talking on the other end erupted. Wayne fumed in silence until his lips were a near non-existent line. “Okay, you know what? Forget it. I'll be calling you again on Monday, and I demand answers until then.” Caught up in trying to keep the tantrum bubbling under the surface at bay, he did not notice his company. “Something wrong, honey bear?” Bruce swung around, cheeks blotched and a wild look in his eyes. He shook his head.  
  
“No.”

Tony's features morphed into something akin to gratification. He grabbed his Rolex from the table and clicked it around his wrist. “Good. Then c'mon, let's go. Team's all ready for the evening out.” Instead of complying, Bruce dropped into the swivel chair with a plop. “Actually, I'm not in the mood tonight.” At that, Stark sauntered nearer, leaned in on him, and put both his hands on each of the armrests.

When his face was inches from that of his husband, a sharp glint appeared in his dark eyes.  
For a moment that seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other.  
Eventually, Tony's mouth formed a lopsided sneer.

“I don't care.”

Twenty minutes later, a moping Gothamite sat behind the wheel of his Camaro and drove through the night, heading for Peabody's nightclub at Virginia Beach. Once the Stark-Waynes arrived, most of their colleagues were already there, occupying the VIP sections Tony had asked Pepper to reserve in advance.

A huge selection of shrimps, nachos, and chicken tenders with fries and dip were distributed around the many tables, and most people had a drink in their hand as they chatted and ate. Bruce had not bothered to dress for the occasion and stood out in his jeans and plain jersey shirt. His husband, on the other hand, was spiffed up with navy blue dress pants, a white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a vest on top.

They entered the club to booming beats and an already filled dance floor with stroboscopic lights flashing. As soon as they were spotted, Tony broke into one of his finest grins and raised his arms in greeting. “Guys and girls – tonight we're going to party hard! And tomorrow, we're gonna race even harder and win!” Applause and cheers followed his impromptu speech. Someone handed him a glass and Tony raised it to his lips.

Bruce twirled his untouched long drink in between his fingers and winced as the bass pounded through the vast club. His husband already sported a new drink as he nudged him. “At least pretend to have fun, honey. Tonight's the bash at the beach, no sourpuss attitude allowed.” Tony was bopping along to the electronic music in between taking swigs from something mixed with coke. Bruce kept the scowl on his face nonetheless.

“You know this isn't my kind of music and I'd have preferred to stay at home like Alfred, Jim, and Lucius.” Wayne had to yell close to his ear to be understood. All it earned him was a shrug. “It's called team building incentive for a reason, and you are not over 50.” Stark's left eyebrow then rose and a brash expression settled upon his face. “Plus... sometimes you just gotta 'man up' and do things you don't like, sweetcheeks.”

He then sashayed off to greet his favorite assistant with a couple of smooches on her cheeks. Pepper laughed and glanced over to where Bruce still stood, gesturing for him to sit next to her on the white couch. Instead of taking a seat Tony meandered on, clapping shoulders here and there, and toasting fellow mechanics. Potts' threw the Gothamite a sympathetic smile. “I got a spare set of earplugs if you like.”

With a meager smirk, Bruce declined.  
“The sooner I go deaf, the better.”  
Used to his macabre sense of humor, Pepper slapped his thigh with a laugh and leaned back to sip on her dry martini.

The Gothamite spent the upcoming two hours rooted to the VIP lounge's couch, trying unsuccessfully to browse the BMW's bike configuration website that was not made for mobile. At some point, Bruce gave up, shoved the device back in his pocket, and seethed along as he placed an order for his third ginger ale of the night. By that time, almost everybody from SW Racing has left for the dance floor.

Bruce cast a sullen look over to see where Tony had ended up. Meanwhile, Stark was surrounded by a string of unfamiliar male and female club goers. Tony's white shirt stood out in the black light as he threw his arms in the air and tipped his head back, moving in sync to the pulsating beats. Wayne's eyes narrowed in on two guys and a girl as they got a little cozier with his husband, up to the point of wedging him in their midst.

Tony kept his hands to himself, but Bruce saw his white teeth flash in the dark as he laughed out loud at something one of them said. Wayne sat up a little straighter to be able to look past the balustrade. When one of the guys started to grind against Tony from behind to the reverberating sounds of Benni Benassi's 'Satisfaction', the Gothamite rose from his seat in one fluid motion, jaw locked tight.

Bruce pushed forward through the heaving crowd like a dark shadow, shoulders squared and chin up high. Stroboscope lights drenched the scenery in front of him into some kind of slow motion, and Bruce watched Tony lean forward to the young woman. A raging fire spread out from behind Bruce's eyeballs, but then Stark straightened back up, a smoldering cigarette between his lips, and exhaled a gust of smoke.

When someone grabbed his arm roughly from behind, Tony jerked around, clearly incensed. “The fuck, B?!” Instead of an answer, Bruce glowered at the guy who had gotten too close. He was blonde, baby-faced, athletic but far less muscular than Wayne, and most likely not older than 25. At the deathly stare he received from the taller Gothamite, he was quick to shimmy along, together with his friend and their female company.

“Grow the hell up, Tony.”

With nimble fingers, Bruce then snatched the cigarette from his husband's lips and threw it down to crush it with his heel. “I want to leave now, c'mon.” Despite his imperious stance and tone, Tony did not budge. “Fuck, no, I'm stayin.” With force, Stark yanked his arm free and put up an equally defiant stare. Bruce leaned in. “You're gonna regret this in the morning.” His voice held a threatening undertone.

At such close proximity, he was able to make out how Tony's eyes were already red and glassy from alcohol. Stark smirked with malice. “Among other things, yeah. At least I don't have to live with a godawful stick up my ass like you.” Wordless, Wayne turned and made his way back where he had come from, uncaring to whom he bumped into on his way towards the exit, tearing a path through the crowd.  
  
It was way past 8 am when Tony returned to the hauler; clothes reeking of cigarette smoke and booze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightclub mentioned:  
> http://peabodysvirginiabeach.com/#!/home


	24. Chapter 24

Martinsville Speedway, Virginia, October 26th 2014

  
Virginia marked the start of NASCAR's Eliminator Rounds. It also marked the day Tony Stark tried to get behind the wheel completely wasted.

“Tony, you're not getting in the car.” From where he stood shielding the driver's window of Chevrolet 19 with his whole body, James Rhodes' stern voice was met with a giggle. "Why? This the Goody's Headache Relief Shot race, innit? Imma get no hungover, platypus, get outta the way.” With most of the team assembled, all eyes then flickered over as Bruce entered the scene, helmet in his hand, and wearing a sour look.

Despite the overall attention, his gaze stayed glued on his husband. “Look what the cat dragged in. I'm surprised you had the audacity to show up.” Tony braced himself against the roof of his car and sneered. “G'day to you too, B. Missed me las' night?” Wayne's eyes narrowed. “Not really. That way I at least was able to get a couple hours of decent sleep without having to listen to you puking your hungover guts out.”

At that, Stark straightened up. “Listen up real good here, loverboy, if anybody's able to hold his liquor, then it's me. And I'm gonna show you how I'm still the best on track.” Bruce motioned for Rhodes to step aside and grabbed his husband square across the chest to prevent him from getting into his car. His grip was firm, but not meant to bruise. “No, you won't.”

Tony allowed him to drag him over into a corner where the two of them led a talk in private. At some point, Stark kept his gaze on the floor and his arms curled around his midriff. Right in the middle of Wayne's lecture, Tony then twisted sideways to retch into the corner against a huge pile of stacked up tires. Face set in stone, Bruce looked around until he caught the redhead assistant's attention.

“Pepper, can you take care of this? I haven't got time for this Micky Mouse bullshit!”

All professional, Potts stepped up to gently help Tony back to his feet, handed him a tissue, and led him out of the garage. “I've never seen him do anything like this.” James Rhodes then reached out to clasp a hand around Wayne's bicep. “Listen, man, I told you some six months ago – if you don't treat him right, I'll rip you a new one.” Bruce straightened up to all of his 6'1 glory and all but stared down on the other man.  
  
“Hands off, James. First and final warning.” After a few heartbeats, Rhodes released him with something akin to a shove. When Pepper came back, her face was pale and strained, and her manicured fingers twisted her phone around. “I am going to call off his participation due to health problems.” Both Alfred and Lucius nodded at her in wordless gratitude.

* * *

The spectators at Martinsville witnessed a total of 15 cautions and two red flags in what was probably one of Bruce's most aggravating races in the current season. He was involved in seven out of all cautions, mostly because of an ongoing feud between him and Allen battling for pole. The seventh caution flag flew on lap 274 when Bruce got hooked into the backstretch wall by Allen, presumably as payback for the earlier incidents.

Wayne collected 13 other cars as he went down; his own taking the worst hit. Smoke could be seen billowing from the Chevy, its culprit a loss of power steering. "We are destroyed, man... it's everything!" Jim Gordon could be heard lamenting on his radio for a couple of minutes, even if the Gothamite was able to get out of his wreck unassisted. Alfred and Lucius immediately began interviewing Hogan and his crew.

Their conversation went back and forth and the bulky man kept on shaking his head and pointing at the wreckage. “We've got massive rear end damage. He got hit from behind and forced into somebody in the front. Looks like the whole front fascia is gone, too. It's beastly.” Standing around the remains of what used to be Chevrolet number 29, their agitated driver broke through the circle, jabbing at the wreck. “I want you to fix this!”  
  
His furious request was met with awkward glances to the floor. “Think that was it for today, Bruce.” Lucius Fox' circumspect voice did not manage to soothe an irate Wayne. “No!” Bruce glared daggers at three young pit crew members who cast him intimidated glances. Then his eyes found those of the chief mechanic. “Hogan! Go and do something. Get this fucking thing back on track!”

Even as Pennyworth and Fox had left, an enraged Gothamite paced around the pit box, snarling at the mechanics to try and salvage his car. A glassy-eyed Tony Stark reappeared from where he had been snoring off his boozing spree in the back. With a snort, he invaded Bruce's personal space and bumped into him. “Fugetaboutit. S' ruined. Remember I told ya bout those training wheels? Looks like you need'em now.”

Running on less than a short fuse, Wayne swung around and pushed him back without thinking. “Just shut the fuck up, Tony!” His equilibrium already out of sync, Stark near fell down but managed to catch himself just in time. A belligerent expression was on his face as he zeroed in on his enraged husband. “Why don't'cha make me?” It took all of Happy Hogan's bulky strength and three mechanics to separate them.

“Hey, hey, hey, guys – guys! C'mon, what the hell?!”

All spiteful, Bruce brushed off the hands that had a precautionary hold on his chest. “Get that drunkard out of my sight before I...” James Rhodes stepped up between them. “Before you what?” Mouth snapping shut, Wayne turned around and ignored them both. Rhodes then went over where Happy still held Tony in what looked to be a semi-tight hold and took over. “C'mon now, Tones, get outta here.”

He started to push and prod the slightly stumbling man towards the garage's exit. Stark cast a look back, nearly tripping over his own two feet. “Bad luck, Bboy – n' now that your precious new bike ain't coming either... sheesh. Real baaaad luck.” He hiccuped around a mean grin as Bruce's eyes narrowed in confusion. As realization dawned in on him, Wayne's expression changed from aghast to furious.  
  
“Bastard. We'll speak about this later, believe me.”

_~~~_

_**Bruce Wayne under investigation for alleged domestic violence  
** _

_  
Will NASCAR's racing glamor couple become an American spectacle?_

_The Virginia State Police announced it was conducting a criminal investigation into domestic assault allegations that involved Bruce Wayne from Stark-Wayne Racing. Wayne is supposed to have had a violent altercation with Tony Stark in their motor coach at Martinsville Speedway after the race. An investigation is being conducted based on an allegation of domestic violence that is alleged to have occurred._

_Anger has defined Wayne ever since he entered NASCAR in 2010. His mentality of having to win at all costs is legendary, such as his infamous propensities for dog-cussing and threatening to fight other racers and journalists. Up to this point, the State Police is still investigating the claims and will preserve the integrity of the case. Team manager Alfred Pennyworth gave the following, official statement:_

_“We intend to have no further comment out of respect for a thorough investigation without a media circus. Both Bruce Wayne and Tony Stark will be racing the upcoming weekend.”_

_http://www.foxsports.com/nascar/latestnews/2014_

_~~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One rather misplaced Gary Oldman 'Léon: The Professional' quote in this.


	25. Chapter 25

~~~  
  
_6_ _th_ _November 2014_  
  
  
**Stark Drops Charges  
**

_Bruce Wayne will not be charged for the unresolved case of alleged domestic assault back in October. According to ESPN.com, a written statement from Stark exists that puts Wayne in the clear:_ “ _I was not thinking straight at that point, and neither was [Wayne]. There was no act of domestic violence.”_

_With just three days to go until the final Eliminator Round, things are bound to stay exciting for team SW Racing._

_http://espn.go.com/racing/nascar/starkwayne_  
  
~~~

Palm Springs, 8th  November 2014  
  
  
“Well, well, well... from Speeding Bullet to Pimp My Ride in a year. Some character development.”

Clark almost banged his head on the open bonnet of the BMW M3 he was just checking the oil level for. Once he had ducked and peeked out from underneath, all he saw at first was a pair of electric blue designer sneakers to go with the disembodied and snarky, deep voice. As soon as the man from Kansas straightened up, he all but inhaled sharply. “Mister Stark. This surely comes... surprising.”

The shorter man's eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Nevertheless, his neatly trimmed goatee morphed into a lopsided smirk. “Does it? Ah, but please, let's cut the formal crap here, shall we? Clark?” The latter's blue eyes narrowed. “Okay.” It was said with faint hesitation. Tony nodded and looked at the track. “D'you like working here? Safe environment, good conditions – nice little racers for the road. Neat.”

Clark carefully wiped the oil dipstick on a clean rag before putting it back into its pipe. “And your point being what again?” Tony's grin turned sharp; predatory. “Those tickets you had – what did they come in again? $120? Or more?” In a forceful move, Kent unhooked the bonnet and lowered it to snap it shut. “I... don't know.”  
  
Stark tilted his head and pursed his lips. “You don't know? Hmm, strange, seeing you bought them. Premium seats. Frontstretch. I looked it up. Surely one would remember spending that much dough watching cars going around in circles.” It was then that the taller man put a hand on the M5's roof and the other on his hip. “Okay, what is it that you really want?” Tony bobbed his head along.

“To think I actually was the one factor in your reunion is... unfortunate, but irrevocable.” At that, he took off his shades in one fluent motion to slip them into the pocket of his leather jacket. “You see, I never had to snoop after my husband, and I'm not planning on doing so in the future. But...” When their eyes met, Stark's blazed with something close to a gung-ho mindset.

“This here -my visit- is only supposed to make sure you know that I know. Nothing more, nothing less.” Clark said nothing at first, even if his hands started clenching on the BMW's roof. “Are you trying to threaten me?” A dangerous smile flitted across Stark's expressive features. “Is it working?” Before his opposite could comment, Tony raised his hands, palms facing Kent.

“Now, now, that was... no. So, how's this? I may have unintentionally dropped him into your lap, but I don't intend on leaving him there, y'know?” From where he had seen the piece of jewelry on Stark's ring finger flash in the sunlight, Clark's eyes narrowed. When the other man inclined his head slightly and began to walk away, Kent pushed out his chest and his arms akimbo. “What if I tell you he came back here of his own accord?”

Like being struck by lightning, Tony stopped walking on the spot. Clark watched his ramrod straight back with a strange rush of inner satisfaction. “Just two days later to be exact?” Stark turned his head just mere inches, but it was enough for Kent to see half of his profile. The previous smile was gone completely. “It doesn't mean a fucking thing, Kent. Not a fucking thing.”  
  
Tony Stark made sure to rev the engine of his brand-new, white Audi R8 Spyder extra hard and extra loud before he peeled out of the BMW school's driveway, burning rubber. As soon as the cloud of dust had settled, Clark exhaled inaudibly, turned on his heel and marched inside.

* * *

Phoenix International Raceway, Arizona, 9th  November 2014

  
"Just wanted to wish you a safe race."  
Bruce paused tying up his shoelaces to look him up and down.  
"Yeah."  
  
Tony's right arm twitched, as if he had wanted to reach out but refrained the very last second. "Fine. Have it your way. Just know this: I'm ready to fight, Bruce. Take that however you want." Wayne finished his task and stood up. For the briefest moment, the two stared at each other; helpless and furious at the same time at the invisible wall drawn up between them for reasons neither wanted to recall or dwell upon. "Good."  
  
The last, minuscule bit of hope faded from Tony's eyes at the monosyllabic answer.  
"Don't say I didn't warn ya."  
With a lethal smirk, Stark marched off towards his own Chevy, slipping his helmet on in the process.

Qualifying found Bruce Wayne on pole, with a new track record time of 25.332 and a speed of 142.113 mph. His husband, who had been keeping an uncommon silence over the radio, had scored second place. "Tones, anything you need? How's the car feeling? Too loose somewhere?" Rhodes had to wait longer than usual for an answer. "I'm sure I got the perfect car, platypus. The perfect car to kick ass today."

The race started five minutes late with Wayne leading the field to green flag. He dominated the track for a good 100 laps until Tony went splitting the middle in turn 4. It resulted in a caution and some debris on the backstretch, and afterward, Tony assumed the race right out of pit road and held onto the lead. All the time, Bruce stayed hot on his heels.  
  
At the couple aggressively out-dueling it on minimal conversation with their team and crew, Jim Gordon eventually covered his microphone and cast his fellow colleague a questioning glance. "What the hell's going on?” James Rhodes palmed his chin and returned the other spotter's disbelieving look. “I don't know, man, but I feel like I'm watching Mr. & Mrs. Smith on a racetrack."

The final two laps around the one-mile race track were nothing but serious edge-of-the-seat drama. The Stark-Waynes crossed the start-finish line side by side with only two more laps to go. When they made contact going into turn 1, Bruce scraped the wall. His foul cursing was met with a crude laugh. “How's your bod, dearest husband of mine? Are you still having fun?”

“I thought of a lot of ways to approach this moment.”

“Ohh, so we're having a moment here, sweetcheeks?”

“Let me just tell you this: I know. About the card.”

“What card?”

“Rogers' card. You calling him.”

Sweat ran down the bridge of his nose. Pressing his foot down hard, Bruce was able to get back by Tony, going down the backstretch. As the duo took the white flag, Tony was forced to give up the lead to avoid getting spun out. It was Stark who then sat on the back bumper of Wayne's car for a super tight nose-to-tail chase all the way into turn 2. “Are you snooping around behind my back? What twisted apeshit game is this?”

“I didn't even have to. You should mind your surroundings next time you're giving head.”

Coming off turn 3, Tony tried his best to get to Bruce's inside. The pair once again made contact, to which sparks flew, and the drag race was on as they made their way back to the start-finish line. Their Chevrolets roared and continued to bounce off one another as they raced towards the checkered flag at high velocity. A faint tingle in his mouth told Tony he had bitten on the inside of his cheek too hard.

“Oh, please, don't'cha try to turn the tables here, Mister I-go-visit-Clark-Kent-behind-your-back. Asshole. You went there _twice_ and didn't have the balls to man up about it! Should've seen the look on his face.” As Tony went down low to make the pass, Bruce instantly went to block hard. “The _fuck_ did you do?” It prompted Stark to go low enough to skim the grass of the infield, albeit never stepping off the gas.

“I paid your farm boy a little visit. Didn't he tell you? Ah well, he _did_ seem a bit discouraged when I left.” Jaw clenched tight, Bruce tried to keep him confined to the infield without losing too much speed himself. “Nah-ah ah. That's not gonna work, honeybuns.” Tony's voice was taunting, if a bit breathless. His husband narrowed his eyes and yanked at the gear shift. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”  
  
Chevy 29 whined out loud at being manhandled by its driver. The passenger side of Tony's car scratched against Bruce's driver's door. “I'm just starting to get a hang of it, dear.” Stark pronounced the 'dear' with as much acerbic venom as possible as his foot slammed onto the accelerator. “And I'm done playing nice.” Rubber fumes and dust billowed through the air as he forcefully pulled to the right.

It prompted the Gothamite to get off the gas and perform an instant, evasive move to avoid getting spun out. At high velocity, and as matters stood, it turned out to be of no avail. In the final turn 4, Tony Stark then succeed in sending Bruce Wayne straight into the wall with a half-spin and a heavy thunk.

Through the rearview mirror, he watched the black and yellow Chevrolet slither down the asphalt. Its hood had blown off from the force of the impact, almost like a piece of paper. Tony squeezed his eyes shut for a second, hands clenched around the wheel before he put his foot down and roared across the finish line.

High up in their pit box, silence dominated the small room. Outside, the crowd hooted and cheered for the man who had ultimately secured his place in the championship race and subsequently eliminated his husband from the Chase for good. NASCAR was going to have a new Sprint Cup Series champion.

“I just gave it my all,” Stark's eyes were hidden behind dark shades as he dutifully answered the reporters' questions at Victory Lane. “I'm not proud of it, but I did what I had to get to the next round. I think if he was in my position, he’d have done the same thing.” His gaze flew over to where James Rhodes and Pepper Potts stood; wearing professional, noncommittal smiles, and shook their heads when asked for statements.

* * *

Bruce had to leave his wreck of a car on track.

He brandished his helmet around, blazing a trail through the bunch of reporters, headed for the pit box. Inside he was met with the distraught countenances of Gordon, Fox, and Pennyworth. “Do you condone this?” Bruce jabbed an arm into the direction of Victory Lane, incensed. “Alfred?! I asked if you condone this!” The team manager remained impassive as Wayne's voice rose and cracked.  
  
“Master Bruce, I want you to control your temper. Think about the press.” Seething along, the Gothamite loosened the Velcro strap around his neck. “You're letting him get away with it? Fine! I'm out of here!” He threw his helmet at the row of lockers and stormed off. Lucius Fox took one final try in helping diffuse the situation.  
  
“Bruce...”  
Wayne turned mid-stride.  
“Fuck off, all of you!”

 


	26. Chapter 26

Malibu, 11th  November 2014

  
A series of storms had brought rain to large parts of northern and central California over the past weeks. Despite that, Bruce had set course for the mansion immediately after the race, taking the jet without telling or waiting for anybody. His mobile had then stayed in constant airplane mode for the past 24 hours; hours he spent exhausting himself in the private gym to try and release at least some of his pent-up aggression.

Sleeping in one of the many guest rooms, he, therefore, missed Tony's arrival.

It was already evening and Bruce was sitting in comfortable clothes watching TV when strange sounds erupted from the corridor. A dull thump followed, then the door to his room slammed open and Tony stood swaying in the doorway. He steadied himself with one hand on the frame, the other busy gripping a bottle. “There you are. Hidin' away from me cuz you're unable to have a proper conversation.”

Wayne's eyes narrowed. “Look who's talking.” Tony took a swig from the bottle filled with amber liquid, all the while shaking an index finger at him. “Nuh-uh. I'm not the one breakin' every single fuckin' wedding vow.” Against his will, the Gothamite snorted out loud. “You're so fucking delusional.” He picked up the remote and turned the television off. Stark's posture changed as he sauntered forward into the room.

“Did you ever love me?”  
Bruce tilted his head.  
“Excuse me?”

The liquor sloshed as Tony took another large swig.  
“Heard me damn well. Did you love me or not?”  
Two brows furrowed, both incensed and incredulous at the notation.  
  
“Are you really trying to pick a fight after that fucking stunt you pulled?”  
Stark's features derailed, to become ugly and distorted.  
“ _ANSWER ME!”_

“Get a fucking grip, Tony.” At Bruce's matter-of-fact voice, Stark's bloodshot eyes sized him up like a bug under the microscope. “Nothing ever gets to you, you infuriating hardass. Even when you're cheatin' on me with Kent.” He turned away to take a few deep breaths. Wayne's flat voice then cut through the silence. “That's really rich after getting cozy with your ex there, exchanging numbers. Bit hypocritical, too.”

Tony swung around, cheeks reddened, and pointed at him with the meanwhile near-empty bottle. “That has nothing to do with it. I fucking don't know what to think anymore, and that's all just your goddamn fault!” The Gothamite remained where he was, arms protecting his chest. “Tony put the bottle down.” Instead of complying, Stark took another huge gulp, spilling expensive whiskey onto the floor as it ran down his chin.

“So 'm guessin it's true. You n Clark. C'mon, admit it. Fuckin coward. Fuckin liar!!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“YOU are wrong with me! And I'm sick and tired of your fucking indifference, Bruce!”

“I am not discussing things with you when you're drunk, Tony.”

“No more.” Tony's words were harsh whispers as he stood, head dipped low, shoulders quivering. “I don' wan' any more of this. I can't go on like this, it's killin' me, okay!?” The last part was yelled out, accompanied by the bottle thrown at the wall behind Wayne. Bruce barely flinched at the crashing sound. “Leave. Right now. No, drop the keys. Leave the car, it doesn't belong to you. Get out!”  
  
Wordless, Wayne threw the Camaro's key fob against the wall, spun on his heel, and left the room.

Less than two minutes later, the main door slammed shut.

* * *

Paradise Cove, 11th  November 2014

  
It was around 11 pm when the doorbell rang, and Pepper Potts was just done removing the remains of her make-up. Putting her hair up in a messy bun, she switched off the little radio in the bathroom and went to peek through the spy hole. With a huge frown, she was quick to unlock the door. “Bruce! What's wrong? What are you doing here?” He stared at her bare feet with the neatly manicured red toenails, embarrassed.  
  
“Sorry I didn't call beforehand, but I... um, don't have my phone with me.”  
  
Pepper eyed his wet, matted hair, flushed face and strange getup with suspicion. “That's okay, but...” Once Bruce managed to find her gaze again, his hazel eyes were distraught. “Can I crash on your couch for the night? The nearest hotel is 50 miles away.” Perplex she stepped aside to let him in. “Of... of course, yes. Yes – come on in.” He strode past her, accompanied by a whiff of cold, rainy air. “What happened? Where's Tony?”  
  
Bruce shed his soaked hoodie jacket to reveal an equally wet t-shirt underneath. “At the mansion.” With two deft strokes, Pepper bolted the door shut behind him. “But you didn't... or - did you? _Walk_ here all the way from the mansion? In this weather?” Wayne's smirk was a mechanical one. “Good for clearing one's head.” Shaking her head, Pepper picked his jacket up from where he had dropped it on a kitchen bar stool.

After she had hung it over the heated towel rail in the bathroom, Pepper returned to watch the tall man stand in the middle of her two-story loft apartment, looking lost and awkward. Bruce had only visited her once in the past months, with Tony in tow, when they were having a little BBQ outside on her patio. "You and Tony had... a fight about the race?"

At her inviting gesture towards the sofa, Bruce shoved his hands flat into the pockets of his sweatpants and hunkered down awkwardly on the edge of the large creme-colored couch. "Something like that." Nothing more followed, so Pepper took a deep breath and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll get you some dry clothes." She walked up the broad, white stairs which led to a spacious, open gallery bedroom.

While she went to rummage around and eventually also dug out a spare set of towels and toiletries, Bruce remained frozen to the spot, thumbing his palm and looking lost in thought. She held out the little stack in his direction. “If you want to take a shower, you can. Feel free to make yourself at home.” Bruce's head shot up, dripping wet bangs sticking all over his forehead. “Huh?”  
  
“A shower. You're going to catch a mean cold if you don't get warmed up soon.”

“I don't want to cause any more inconveniences.” His mumbled refusal was met with a stern, tsking sound. Pepper shoved the items into his frigid hands. “If you catch the flu, it's far more inconvenient. The guest bath is around the kitchen to the right.” The warm water did wonders for Bruce's cold and clammy skin. Once he was showered and had brushed his teeth, he switched off the bathroom lights.

The apartment lay in darkness and he cast a curious glance around. Pepper's head peeked around the open patio door. “Over here. C'mon out, the storm's died down.” Barefooted he padded over. The redhead looked him up and down with a satisfied nod. “That'll do until your stuff has gotten tumble dried tomorrow morning.” Bruce followed her gaze down the large jersey shirt and the pair of navy checkered boxer shorts.

“You needn't have bothered, but... thanks.” Pepper then patted the space next to her on a huge, gray porch swing with an arched canopy that occupied a corner of the spacious terrace. Several rustic wood lanterns were distributed around, drenching the scene in a soft and atmospheric light. Two glasses and a bottle of wine stood on the table. “Don't you worry about those things now, okay? I just want to know what happened.”

Bruce sighed and scratched at the slightly damp back of his head. “Do you really?” With care, he slipped into the cushioned seat and stretched out his long legs on the tiled floor. Without asking, Pepper threw the flannel blanket over them both, put her legs up, and reached out for her glass. Taking a sip she cocked her head. “Yes. Because Tony is one of my best friends, and because I care about the two of you.”  
  
Pushing on the floor with his feet, Bruce set the swing into a slow rocking motion. After a while, he then tilted his head back and intertwined his hands in his nape. “He drinks. Lots these days.” Pepper inhaled sharply. “God. Not again.” He cast her a bewildered glance. “Again?” She stopped the swing to put the wine glass back on the table and wrapped the blanket tighter around her slim form. Then she nodded, crestfallen.

“Tony has a history of alcohol abuse. It must have started sometime after his parents' death, I... I guess James would know better than me about those days. They've met back at MIT.” For a while, Bruce stared ahead into the flickering candles and said nothing. Eventually, he inhaled. “I don't know how it's going to work in the long run.” His admission was quiet, almost ashamed. The woman next to him responded with a cautious nod.

“We've all been noticing something's up, but...” Her voice trailed off into the night. “It's a good thing the season's almost over.” Bruce snorted. “It is definitely over for me.” Pepper pursed her lips. “Forgive me if I'm not taking sides... it's impossible.” He glimpsed at her profile. “I'm not asking you to. Got no right to.” One of her slender hands reappeared from under the blanket and reached up to brush against his cheek.  
  
“Things will look better in the morning, I am sure.”  
  
Wayne nodded into her touch and spontaneously held out an arm for her to lean against his chest.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some headcanon in this one about Pepper living in Paradise Cove; a ten-minute drive from Stark Mansion at Point Dume. Which, in this case, means an hour-long walk on foot for poor Bruce.
> 
> Oh, and that previous scene at the mansion is heavily inspired by a gif set (*winks at black_queen*) manip of RDJ's fantastic acting in 'A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints' (2006), and Christian Bale in 'Equilibrium' (2002). Find the original post here: 
> 
> http://poshtoffees.tumblr.com/post/41654318428/did-you-love-me-or-not-answer-me


	27. Chapter 27

Paradise Cove, 12th November 2014

Falling asleep under the given circumstances was strange.

It was way past midnight when Bruce still turned and twisted on his aching back, trying to be silent enough to grant the woman up on the gallery her rightful sleep. Faint moonlight shone in through the blinds, and he looked at the strange patterns at the ceiling. “Bruce?” Pepper's voice was barely a whisper. From where he lay on his makeshift bed, he raised his head. “Huh?” Shuffling upstairs erupted, then he caught sight of movement.

“Can't sleep?”  
  
His mouth formed a rueful smirk. “Sorry, I'll try to be quiet. Or maybe I'll... go for a walk outside on the beach.” Slinging the covers back, Bruce hopped to his feet and tried to make out where the pile of his clothes had disappeared to. Pepper's footsteps padded around, then there was a faint source of light from above.

“At the risk of sounding strange – come up here, the bed is big enough for two. Three even. The couch is nice, but not for sleepovers. Designer stuff that always looks good, but does nothing for one's back. Especially not _your_ back.” He blinked up at her silhouette, then back to his current nightly quarter. The wooden stairs creaked softly under his feet as he stepped up.

Her bed indeed was large and covered with simple white sheets and cushions. With an amused tug around the mouth, Pepper patted the empty side next to her. “C'mon, I promise I don't bite. As long as you don't snore, that is.” Wayne pulled a face. “Not making promises here.” He slipped under the covers and remained flat on his back. The smell of lavender and mint wafted over to him as Pepper moved to switch off the lights again.

“Good night, Bruce.”  
A hand brushed against his shoulder before she turned away from him.  
“... good night.”

* * *

“Why are you here? That's not what we discussed! I said I'd call you again after he's...”

A hushed, female voice roused Bruce from a deep, but dreamless sleep. Gathering his bearings, he popped one eye open to glimpse around. There was a stack of coffee table books piled up in one corner, next to an arrangement of big candles in bulbous lanterns next to it. The smell of coffee wafted over to him, just like Pepper's agitated voice. “I told you there's no need to...” Another voice interrupted. It was male.  
  
“Where is he?”  
With a start, Bruce sat up straight in what he soon discovered was Pepper's bed.  
“This is _my_ apartment, and I won't tolerate...”  
  
“I want to talk to him!”

Heart hammering in his chest, Bruce rubbed his face and scooted out of the luxury futon bed. From his position upon the gallery, he braced himself against the balustrade and peeked down. Standing in the doorway of the apartment was Tony; eyes hidden behind a pair of shades. The second Stark had spotted him from his place in the doorway, he was quick to pull his glasses off and stare up at the gallery.

He took in Bruce's clothes and rumpled state for the longest time, until his face twisted with unabashed ire. “You disgusting piece of shit. You... backstabbing sonofabitch.” Pepper, dressed in jeans and a knitted sweater, closed the door and shook her head with such vehemence that her ponytail dipped left and right. “Now, Tony! This is most definitely not what you think! How _dare_ you even assume...”

Stark cut her off with a brusque palm up in her face. “Because he's a dirty fucking cheater, that's why.” Jaw clenched tight, Tony then brushed past her and jabbed a finger into Bruce's direction. “Now you're screwing my closest friend? Have you told her why I threw you out? Huh? Have you?” Wayne said nothing as his eyes darted to the woman in the back. Tony's breath came out in harsh puffs as he swung around to look at his assistant.

“Has he, Pep? Told you he's been seeing his ex behind my back? I'm sure he hasn't. Playing the field is something fucking-hypocrite-Bruce-Wayne does not admit to in public. Especially not if he can score yet another lay in the process.”

“What the fuck do you think you're doing here?”

Bruce's voice was rough from not being used. He made his way down to stand in front of his husband, both fists balled at his sides. “You're going to apologize to Pepper right now for your shit.” Tony just sneered. “Yeah, fuck you, too.” When he pushed him, out of the blue, it prompted Bruce to widen his stance. “Don't start, Tony. Don't start with me now.” Another push to his chest. “Don't fucking tell me what to do, Judas.”

Nostrils flaring from barely contained anger, Wayne raised his chin. “Guess that makes you Jesus, with all your water-to-wine boozing these days.” His snide remark prompted Tony to lunge for him, enraged. Someone screamed, probably Pepper. They took swings each other, flailing extremities wrestling and grappling until Tony lost his balance and both tumbled down onto the couch.

The back of Bruce's head hit the massive glass table with a loud, dull thud, prompting him to see stars and loosen his grip on Tony's jawbone. “STOP IT!” When Pepper's voice rang through their ragged breathing, it sounded panicked and close to tears. Wayne curled himself into a ball and slid down to the floor between couch and table, holding his head. Coming out of his raging daze, Tony backed off, wheezing and huffing.

He wiped the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed, staring down at his husband with wild, uncomprehending eyes. “Look what you've done! Look what you've made me do! FUCK!” Much to Pepper's relief, Bruce stirred and slowly pushed himself back into a kneeling position. Palming his head, he staggered to his feet, chest heaving from exertion. Wincing from the pain in his back, Wayne then spoke.

His eyes were cold, and his voice just as devoid of any emotion.

“I want a divorce.”

 


	28. Chapter 28

Malibu, 13th  November 2014

  
After bolting out of Pepper's apartment, Tony gunned it out of the parking lot and onto the freeway.

For hours, he simply floored it, uncaring about any speeding tickets or where he would wind up. When he eventually returned home, it was already way past midnight, and the Mansion lay in darkness. Dragging himself through the open living room, he switched on some downlights in the back and went straight for the bar. Equipped with a generously filled tumbler his fingers ghosted along the grand piano upon the gallery.

There, Tony saw it. His husband's wedding band. Fixated on a piece of paper with a Scotch tape. Also attached was the paperclip ring from Las Vegas, equally taped. A single sentence was scribbled underneath both rings. It read _'Things we don't deserve'._ Next to it was a big brown envelope with a lawyer's firm stamp. It held a copy of some pre-signed divorce papers from Bruce Montgomery Wayne.

The words on the little note started to swim in front of his vision for a split second, so Tony made sure to blink and shake his head a little. When the scenery in front of him did not change, his stomach gave a violent lurch. He barely made it to the nearest guest bathroom to empty its contents into the bowl. Stark fell asleep on the bathroom tiles that night; in a mansion too big, too dark, and too empty.

* * *

Malibu, 15th November 2014  


“You don't have to deal with this, Tony, especially not right before the final race. Some of SI's best lawyers can deal with Bruce's attorneys and...”

His assistant put her clipboard away to place a hand on his shoulder. From where unseeing eyes stared upon an underlined paragraph, Tony jerked at her touch and drew away. _'A spouse does not have to agree to a divorce for it to happen. If he will not cooperate and refuses to sign a particular document, the court will usually finalize the divorce without his participation.'_ After reading aloud, Tony slammed a palm onto the desk.

It prompted Pepper to flinch and take her hand away. “I need to deal with this, Pep, and I will deal with this, okay? I'm not going to hide behind an armada of suits like a coward.” He leaned back and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Pepper pinched her lips together and forced a neutral look on her face when her boss took his hands away. “Look how far I've sunken – beating up my husband until he wants to divorce me.”

She frowned. “Both of you have said and done regrettable things, Tony, you... I know you always wanted to make it work.” A cruel sounding laugh. “Did I, Pep? Did I really?” The amount of self-doubt and pain was strong in his voice and eyes. “I just can't make him love me. I can't make _anyone_ love me.” Stark propped his elbows up on the desk and buried his head within his palms. Upon a small sob, Pepper squeezed his shoulder.

“I love you, Tony. Rhodey and Happy do, too. You're not alone. You'll never be alone.”  
  
An absentminded nod was all Pepper Potts received in return.

* * *

Los Angeles, 15th November 2014  
  
  
_So this is what it feels like_  
_To be the one left behind_  
_To give it all you've got, then find_  
_You've already changed your mind_  
  
_So I ask myself “Do I love you so much that I'm willing to let you go?”_  
_And at the tip of my tongue the answer was “yes”_  
_But at the bottom of my heart I'm wondering did I say that?_  
  
_Oh no no, did I say that?_  
  
_Sometimes you know I overreact_  
_And what I say is not a matter of fact_  
_And I wish that I could take it all back_

With an angry tug, Bruce yanked out the earplugs as it knocked on the door of his room at the Travelodge Hotel LAX. When reception called to tell him he had a visitor, Bruce almost told the receptionist to send him away. Alfred Pennyworth was unrelenting, however, and so he stood in the middle of the room minutes later. Disparaging blue eyes skimmed along the caramel-colored wallpaper and some tacky, green-satin comforter.

“How long are you planning to stay here, Master Wayne?”

“As long as it takes.”

Bruce's answer was petulant on purpose. His visitor clasped his hands behind his back and regarded him, until Wayne remembered his manners and gave an, albeit stubborn, inviting wave at the second free chair outside on the patio. Pennyworth sat down with care, mindful of his gout-riddled knees. It brought a tug of shame out inside the Gothamite's sullen mind.

“I take it this whole episode does involve greater issues than your mere elimination this season.” Bruce put his elbows on his thighs and kneaded his palms. “It's complicated.” He then raised his head and looked down to where the pool lay, uninhabited. “Or maybe it isn't, and all those past months have been nothing but a game of make-believe.” Alfred folded his hands in his lap.

“I've seen you happier than I can recall in those months. Master Anthony may not have been what I believed to be your equal at first, but I have come to realize he has a good heart.” Nodding along, still avoiding eye contact, Bruce started to rub his palms against each other. “Maybe it's just that _I_ am not one of your good people, Alfred.” Instead of an instant reply, Pennyworth slowly rose to his feet.

“If I was able to teach you one thing, then it's the ability to use and channel all of your emotion and willpower towards something good.” Alfred smiled a tired smile, showing off his age. “At least, that is what I can only hope for at this point, Master Bruce. For you to find your way.” Long after the elder team manager and the closest thing to a father Bruce Wayne had, had left the hotel, his protege remained sitting out on the patio.

Staring at the illuminated and still water surface area down below, Bruce's fingers fumbled around for his phone.  
Its earphones were still attached, so he put them back in and pressed play.

 _And I know you need some time to run and hide_  
_But the truth is hard to swallow when you're choking on your pride_

 _I don't want to be this wide-awake_  
_Fighting for a love that I can't save_  
  
_And hanging off the edge of every word you say_  
_Knowing that it might make me cry_  
_I don't want to be this complicating_

 _You can drag it out but I'll be waiting_  
_I stumbled on "I love you" tonight_  
_But it sounded like goodbye_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics and copyright: Meat Loaf 'Did I Say That' from the 2003 album 'Couldn't Have Said It Better'


	29. Chapter 29

Homestead-Miami Speedway, 16th November 2014  
  
  
_'NASCAR's 2014 Sprint Cup Championship has a winner: Tony Stark from Stark-Wayne Racing!_

 _After a total of_ _3:16:31_ _hours, we have seen one, if not the most exciting and most of all emotional final races of the whole season. Stark demonstrated a truly splendid performance out on track, muscling his way to the lead until he held onto it for the final 30 laps and put his contestants in their places._

 _Post-race saw Stark shedding some tears – clearly tears of victory after his last season's disastrous suspension and internal team problems. None of that seems to matter now - with his team standing behind him, Anthony Stark once more showed America some of the finest racing NASCAR is famous for! This is Allen Bestwick, live for ESPN.'_  
  
In his hotel room, Bruce Wayne switched off the old television in the corner and leaned back across the mattress. Eyes trained on the ceiling, he tried to get the close-up of the man who was still his husband out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried, Tony's large brimming eyes during the ceremony would still haunt him in his sleep.

* * *

Malibu, 18th  November 2014

  
Drenching rain had fallen on much of California for the past few days.

With it came the raised risk of flash flooding. Parts of the Pacific Coast Highway had already needed to be closed due to multiple rock and mudslides. Despite the weather, the shiny white Audi R8 sped down PCH, doing 90 instead of 60 mph. Many drivers passing him by tried to get him to slow down by flashing their headlights at him. Tony, however, did not mind or notice, fingers busy texting his soon-to-be ex-husband.

_T_Stark 'That's what we've come to?'_

_BW 'What do you mean?'_

_T_Stark 'Not a single text? No fucking congratulations, nothing?'_

_BW 'It's best to put some space between us for now'_

_T_Stark 'S_ _pace won't make it better - talking it over will!'_

_BW 'Didn't turn out well last time'_

_T_Stark 'FUck yoU!!1'_

_T_Stark 'Why? Why are we doing this??'_

_T_Stark 'Just for the record I--'_

The harsh, reverberating truck horn got him to jerk his head up. Dropping the phone to the floor, Tony moved to yank the R8 back into its lane. He was, however, not fast enough, and the truck grazed his right fender at full speed. The force of the impact was heavy enough to lift the sports car off the ground, shredded and tore it apart until its remains came to a smoldering halt against the Jersey barrier.

* * *

 _T_Stark 'Just for the record I--'_  
When nothing else followed, Bruce stopped staring at the clipped text message for the longest time.  
_BW 'Stop playing for dramatics again'_

Angry at himself for raising to the bait he put the phone aside and went back to his latest set of chin ups. After several more minutes, he jumped back down, toweled his face and glimpsed at the dark screen again. Wiping his fingers, Bruce chugged some water and changed the volume control from mute to moderate. After another twenty minutes, he still had no answer, and Tony had not read his text either.

Part of Bruce wanted to switch off his phone, not wanting to play along with those mind games. Standing in the changing room of the hotel's gym after his shower, he decided on one more try and pressed the 'call' button. _'The person you have called is temporarily not available. Please try again later.'_ Hanging up, Bruce stuffed his phone back into the gym bag and zipped it shut with a resolute motion. “Goddamn man-child.”  
  
Back up in his room, Bruce was just about to unpack sweat-stained workout clothes when his phone buzzed inside its confines. Ready to tell Tony how much his attitude sucked balls, Wayne yanked it out; only to stare at the foreign number on the screen. With a wary frown, he raised the device to his ear.  
  
“Hello?”  
“Mister Wayne?”  
“Yes?”

“This is officer McGuire from LAPD. There has been an accident involving your husband.”  
Adrenaline shot through Bruce's veins in less than a split second.  
“... accident?”

“On the PCH, an hour ago. It must have been a head-on collision, the car was smashed to pieces. Mister Stark had to be extricated from the wreckage. He was in cardiac arrest and has been given CPR by police officers at the scene. He's been taken to Cedars-Sinai Hospital for further emergency treatment.” Everything around Bruce seemed to reel, so he grabbed onto the nearest wall to steady himself.

“I am on my way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should be deeming Foreigner's 'That was Yesterday' (1984) as part of this story's OST at this point. Which I won't, because, copyright issues. But still... it fits, lyrics-wise...


	30. Chapter 30

Los Angeles, 18th November 2014

Rhodes and Pepper were already there when he arrived, shock written all over their faces. Before Bruce had a chance to get more information from them, a doctor appeared. His scrubs were stained with huge, dark spots, and Bruce forced himself to stay focused on his grave face instead.

“Unfortunately, Mister Stark suffered a moderate heart attack during the emergency surgery of the open book fracture of his pelvis. We are preparing for bypass surgery as soon as he is stable. Right now, he's still in critical.” Pepper actually sobbed out loud and covered her mouth with both hands. Rhodes pulled her to his chest. The doctor glimpsed around the small circle of horrified people.

“Surgery is going to take four hours. Who is his next kin?”

James' hate-filled eyes turned to a pale-looking Wayne. “That would be him.” The doctor reached into the pocket of his coat and presented Bruce with a see-through, zipped up plastic bag. “Mister Stark's personal belongings.” Numb, Bruce took it with unseeing eyes. He did not notice the doctor leaving, or Pepper crying into Rhodes' shoulder. All he could focus on were the items inside the bag.

A dark, broken StarkPhone. Tony's Rolex, which had suffered a huge crack in the glass. A bloodied, massive silver chain ripped into. A shudder ran through the Gothamite. Dangling from it were Tony's two wedding rings, Bruce's titanium band, and the paperclip ring. The latter was smashed into an unrecognizable heap. Fingering the bloodied items, Bruce covered his eyes with one hand and started to breathe heavily behind his palm.

He only cast red-rimmed eyes up to see Rhodes jumping up from his seat; his face distorted with rage.  
“Fuck you, Wayne, you broke his heart! You lowlife piece of shit! This is all your fault!”  
Only Pepper's hastily applied grip prevented James Rhodes from lashing out.

* * *

_**NASCAR driver Tony Stark in critical condition, coma after crash** _

  
_Tony Stark, one of the most consistent performers in NASCAR's Sprint Cup series and current champion, is in critical condition and on life support after a crash on the Pacific Coast Highway on Tuesday night. Involved in the violent two-car collision were Stark's private sports car and a semi-trailer truck._ _The truck driver was treated on-site for minor injuries, while Stark had to be airlifted to hospital with critical injuries after his Audi R8 had plowed headfirst into the other vehicle._

_His current condition remains unknown. The accident shut down PCH near Corral Canyon Park for hours._

_No official statement from Stark-Wayne Racing has been released so far._

  
_https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2014/nov/19/nascar/tony-stark-car-collision_

* * *

Los Angeles, December 2014  
  
  
In the end, Tony's medical condition left him on life support for 12 days. For the first week, it was very touch-and-go, and the doctors had little hope that he would survive. While they were supportive, they also were blunt. “He has an ejection fraction of just 35%. Recovery is going to be long and difficult.” Bruce wanted to die upon seeing him all but wasting away in between the sheets.

When Tony finally did regain consciousness, he was beyond weak, with atrophied muscles and bed sores all over his body. His friends' relief and joy went past him unnoticed, seeing he was drifting in and out, not recognizing anybody or anything. Sitting by the bedside, looking rough himself, Wayne all but jumped at a faint, scratchy sound. It was different to all the steady-beeping machines he had gotten accustomed to.

“Ngh...”  
  
Bruce leaned closer. “Tony?” Just when Bruce thought he had imagined things, two glassy brown eyes peeked out from underneath half-opened, heavy eyelids. “Uh'nh. Wh'r'm I?” Throat dry, Bruce swallowed. “Cedars-Sinai, LA. You had a bad accident on the PCH.” Another pause during which Tony's eyes drooped shut. His head lightly moved. “Wha'... day's it?”

“Monday, 1st."

“N..N'vemb'r?”

“No, it's... already December.”  
Stark took time to process that answer. Eventually, he exhaled with care.  
“'r we d'vorced yet?”

Wayne rubbed his neck and gazed at the monitor above the nightstand. “I have asked Pepper to withhold from filing the documents until you... the doctors weren't sure if you...” The Gothamite frowned and pressed his lips together. His eyes wandered back to Tony's gaunt appearance, misery etched on his unshaven face. “For now it's important that you rest and get well again. Anything else is secondary.” A wet-sounding intake of breath.  
  
“Still wan' to?”

“Huh?”

“Leav'me?”

“Would I be here if that was the case?”

“D'nno.”

“I never... You pushed me away.”

“Di'n't.”

“Let's not argue. You need to save your strength.”  
Underneath some untrimmed stubble on chin and cheeks, Tony's mouth twitched.  
“'m not str'ng. Shouldn've made 't.”

“No. Never say that again.” Bruce's voice near cracked and he lowered his head, embarrassed. It prompted Tony to take another heavy breath. A single tear ran down the corner of his eye as he squeezed them shut. “'m a cripple, Br'ce. Di'n't love m' b'fore, woul'n't now.” Overwhelmed, Wayne reached over to press the nurse call button to his left. “I... I'm going to get you a doctor.”

The Gothamite told himself he was not fleeing the scene, but once he was out of the single bedroom and had also informed a passing nurse, his legs carried him down the neon-lit corridors. At some point, he saw real daylight at the end of the aisle, towards the main entrance, and hurried his steps. Gazing down, he thumbed down the contacts of his phone and dialed in mid-stride.

“Pepper? He's awake. Tell Rhodes and the rest. Yes. No. No, I can't. I... maybe. Okay. Yes. Bye.”

 


	31. Chapter 31

Los Angeles, January 2015  
  
  
The following days were especially hard as Tony struggled to perform even basic tasks, like sitting up straight in bed on his own or putting on his pajamas. His fine motor skills and his memory often failed him, and talking had become a chore as the vocal chords had been injured by the prolonged intubation. At some point, Stark therefore went and scribbled some hard to read words on a piece of paper.

His best friend had to read the lines multiple times to understand Stark wanted him to shave off his goatee for good; a style far too complicated to maintain under given conditions. While James Rhodes did the best he could, Pepper Potts also did everything in her power to keep the public off their backs. SI's private security service was on 24/7 standby, in case of nosy paparazzi, and all visits were on a tight schedule.

The redhead also had the strenuous task of making sure Wayne and Rhodes would not run into each other. She had taken up texting Bruce individual time slots when Tony would be able to see him, but the Gothamite did not respond, other than having read her messages at the most ungodly hours. Opposed to Wayne's reclusive treatment, other Gothamites like Alfred, Lucius, and Jim Gordon made sure to come by.

On their first visit, they brought along an 8-foot stuffed teddy bear with a customized Stark-Wayne Racing logo shirt, and a bright red satin sash reading 'Get well soon Tony'. It found its place underneath the flat screen television on the wall. The conversation was strained, however, seeing neither none of them had seen or heard anything from Bruce Wayne.

One windy afternoon late January, James Rhodes was just pulling the door to Tony's room shut behind him when he spotted a familiar, tall figure down the corridor. Dressed in an all-black ensemble of a trench coat, denims, and boots, Bruce Wayne strode on, eyes locked on the small mobile device in his hand. Once he glanced up and saw Rhodes and Pepper, Bruce stopped walking with a bewildered frown.

“What are _you_ doing here?”  
  
At Rhodes' blunt question, Wayne pocketed his phone and switched a little, wrapped box into his other hand. “What's it look like?” James remained standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “You've got no right to be seeing him.” At the seething tone, Pepper stepped up with a cautious “Jim...” James Rhodes narrowed his eyes. “No, Pep, I mean it. Who the hell does he think he is, showing up here like the biggest, elusive snob on earth!?”

Angered at being talked about, Bruce's lips turned into a pinched, tight line. “Tony's still my husband. I'll visit him whenever I want.” Rhodes sneered up at him. “It's always been about you getting what _you_ want, Wayne, hasn't it? It's why things are the way they are.” Brows furrowed in anger, Bruce attempted to brush past. “I don't have to deal with this.” James placed an outstretched arm into the door frame, blocking his entry.

“Yes, you do! You're not welcome anymore, Wayne. Go. Go back to whatever place you call home. It's not here!” The words were quiet, seething. It would have been the perfectly natural reaction for Bruce to turn things into a fight, all bottled up emotions considered. Part of James Rhodes already steeled himself for having to use his fists in what would be a most likely losing battle. Much to his surprise, nothing the like happened.

Instead, the Gothamite avoided his stare and focused on a devastated looking Pepper. “Give this to him, will you?” She nodded and took gift, pressing her lips together. Bruce Wayne then turned around and left the hospital without looking back, coat wafting after him.

* * *

When the door reopened, Tony cast it a drowsy, but hopeful glance. Confusion spread out upon seeing his assistant again. “Thought I heard..?” Pepper looked down at something in her hands before she faced him. “Something has come up, he couldn't stay. He said he was sorry and that I... should give you this.” She tried for a happy facade and put the present on the blanket in his lap. Tony's regarded it with a smirk full of dejection.

“Platypus' got balls, but... Bruce'd never.” Pepper cocked her head at his raspy whisper. “Never what? What do you mean?” He cleared his throat again with a pain-filled swallow. “Say he's sorry. N-not Bruce.” His assistant fell quiet. Tony pointed his chin at the dark-red colored item. “Would you?” She was quick to unwrap the gift for him while he stared at something outside the window.

As soon as she was done and crumpled the used wrapping in one hand, his voice was quiet. “Thanks. I'd like t'be 'lone now.” Pepper leaned over to brush a gentle kiss on his scabbed, bruised forehead. “Of course. I'll be back tomorrow morning at 10.” After the door had clicked shut and the staccato of heels had faded out, Tony pressed the back of his head into the pillow, sighed, and regarded the nondescript black box in front.

He needed four tries of his shaky fingers to eventually pry it open, only to stare at its contents. Inside the black box was a sterling silver necklace Tony immediately recognized as his own. It had been polished and given a new, solid clasp. Attached to it was a single, plain titanium band with its unique engraving.  
  
_'Ubi concordia, ibi victoria.'_  
Puzzled, Tony stared at the ring.  
It was not his. It was Bruce's.

 


	32. Chapter 32

_~~~_  
**  
_Stark-Wayne Racing sold for $_** _**800,000** _

_17 years ago,_ young mechanic _and technical genius Tony Stark launched Stark Industries Racing with five employees and 5,000 square feet of workspace. The rest? National racing history. In 2010, rookie Bruce Wayne founded his fledgling team straight out of Gotham City. Determination and skill were what got him to race to his first NASCAR Cup pole position in the No. 21 car just three years later._

_Fate had it for the two drivers to not only collide on track but also in private. The result? A union._

_After several personal and corporate restructures, the two multimillion-dollar subsidiaries got re-branded 'Stark-Wayne Racing' in 2014. The new team made the biggest jump in terms of net worth according to Forbes' count, ranking fourth with a value of $148 million, and building one of the top teams in NASCAR._

_Even though Stark-Wayne only debuted the past season, they already can add last year's Sprint Cup title to their credit. A young and promising racing dynasty was born; with more than 500 employees in 430,000 square feet of workspace, across a 140-acre campus in Malibu, CA._

_Or so it seemed._

_A fatal car accident later, the future of Stark-Wayne Racing seemed up in the air for many weeks. As of today, and after a successful season, Stark and Wayne have agreed to officially terminate their business partnership in what is said to be an amicable dissolution. All property got transferred to an entity designated by the respective team founders. Despite many rumors, it remains unknown to the public up to this day._

_https://racingnews.co/2015/02/10/SWRacing-nascar-team-sold/_  
  
~~~

Malibu, 23rd  February 2015

  
“Will I ever be normal again?”  
  
Tony's speech was raspy as he sunk down into the chair. After finally being able to leave the hospital and go home the previous week, he was still feeling easily winded and weak even from standing up for short periods of time. “You were _never_ normal, Tones. But you'll be yourself soon again, you just need time to recover.” James Rhodes leaned down to hand him a pill dispenser and a glass of water.

At the colorful palette, Tony pursed his lips in disgust. “All those medications are driving me nuts. Honestly. Either they make it difficult to wake from the cotton wooly feel in the morning, or they give you the weirdest dreams ever.” He wisely refrained from also mentioning the easy bruising, the hot flashes, and those rare, worrisome times he still spat up blood. “Weird dreams don't sound too bad.”

Stark popped the pills with a quirked brow. “Not boner-weird. Weird-weird. I am yet waiting to be able to normally look at that NBC anchorman again.” James grinned. “That zombie apocalypse thing again?” Tony nodded along as he was busy gulping water. When the doorbell rang, Rhodes wiped his fingers on a kitchen towel. “I'll go get it – you stay put, Usain Bolt.” A middle finger followed him over to the main door.  
  
Rhodes opened it with vigor, only to find his cheerful expression turn sour in less than a millisecond. “What are _you_ doing here?” The pale, chiseled features of Bruce Wayne morphed into a strained attempt of friendliness. “I got his card. Can I see him?” Like proof, he held up an envelope with Tony's scribbled, but still detectable handwriting on it. Rhodes narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply, sounds from behind erupted.

Through the open door and behind Rhodes' shorter physique, Bruce saw the silhouette of a man appear in the back. He was sitting in a wheelchair, hands resting on each wheel as he pushed himself forward. “What's wrong, Rhodey?” Upon hearing the familiar baritone, Bruce swallowed. “You got a visitor.” The look James cast his friend as he stepped aside spoke of 'why didn't you tell me about this?'.

Stark did not pay him any attention, busy gawking at the man he had not seen in over a month.

Wayne appeared to be a bit slimmer, albeit still athletic, had a clean-shaven face, and wore his hair shorter than before. He was dressed in a fitted black leather jacket atop a light-gray shirt, dark denims, and heavy boots. His left hand was looped through the open visor of a matte carbon motorbike helmet. After a few seconds, Bruce's lips started to form a cautious and hesitant smile; one that was almost too easy to miss.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Tony nodded at a glowering James Rhodes who was still standing with a firm grasp on the massive door. “Lay off the bouncer attitude, platypus, you're not Happy. Let him in.” Sinister look on display, the other man stepped aside and closed the door behind Wayne. “I'll be out on the patio if you need me.” He stressed the 'need' more than necessary. Tony nodded and waved him off.

“We're good. Go have a romp in the pool or somethin – nobody ever uses it anymore these days.”

Footsteps marched off, and the sound of a glass door sliding shut were heard, even if Bruce suspected Rhodes to still be within earshot. Tony then made an inviting gesture towards the huge couch and gave a push to set the wheelchair in motion. “Care for a drink? Ginger Ale? Coke?” Wayne shook his head but followed him. “No, thanks. I didn't mean to stay long. I just... wanted to say thanks for the card. Got it two days ago.”

Again he held up the piece of cardboard like evidence after putting his helmet aside. From where Stark regarded it, he was quick to pull a grimace. “Aw, shucks, it was supposed to arrive on time.” He sounded sincerely disappointed, so Bruce hurried to slip the card into an inside pocket of his jacket and shook his head. “No, no, never mind. I... didn't expect to get it in the first place, so it was a... pleasant surprise.”

Tony's fingers started drumming a little melody on the armrest as he looked out onto the ocean. Bruce regarded his beardless profile with its new, faint scar across the bridge of his nose. Eventually, Stark blinked and focused back on his guest. “Daytona started yesterday.” Wayne's brows furrowed. “I know.” The drumming then stopped. “I am never gonna be racing again, Bruce.” The latter closed his eyes for a brief moment.

“I... know.”  
Pain radiated heavily within those two words, so Tony gazed out at the ocean again.  
“Well. It paid off to sell the whole thing. That way, at least no one from pit crew had to lose their job.”

“Except us.”

“Yeah. You, me, Rhodey, Pepper, Alf, Lou, Jim. Happy doesn't count, he enjoys being my chauffeur now.” Bruce raised his head from where he had tried to count the many identical weft threads of the plush carpet. “So, uhm... how's Pepper?” Tony folded his hands in his lap and regarded them, twirling his thumbs.

“Good actually. Enjoys not having to live out of the suitcase with what's all that travel. Said she can now finally function as a 'real life PA', whatever that means.” The strained tug around Bruce's mouth lessened a little. “Give her my regards.” He wanted to add 'And my new number', but refrained the very last second.

Tony nodded. “Will do. She's gonna be so mad she's at the office today. Speaking of which – how're Waldorf and Statler doing?” Bruce gave a little breathed-out sound that resembled a laugh. “Alfred and Lucius are doing great with the administrative part of the new Wayne Automotive branch.” The huff Tony gave was full of affection. “But don't ever try and tell them they're getting too old for this racing shit anyhow, eh?”

They shared a small smile, then Bruce shrugged. “Jim took it the hardest. He's currently getting more and more involved with traffic education in cooperation with the GCPD. It suits him; doing good and helping others.” Tony hummed along. “Always was a square, the 'stache one. I'm gonna miss him. Might have to get to Gotham at some point, illegally speeding over a crosswalk or something.” Wayne shot him a pointed look.  
  
“Just what that city needs. Yet another traffic hazard.”  
  
Another careful grin passed between them before they fell silent. After clearing his throat, Stark tilted his head as he regarded his opposite. “You're looking good, Bruce. Bit tired, but good.” Wayne lowered his gaze in embarrassed discomfort. “It's still strange sleeping at a residence instead of a hauler. I'll have to get used to that.” At that, the man who was still his husband hummed noncommittally.

“You mean getting used to living in Gotham for good then? Back to the roots?” Wayne's long fingers played with the chin strap of his helmet. “I still haven't figured out where I belong.” The corners of his mouth turned upwards, but there was no real joy behind it. Tony watched his repetitive motions of tracing the helmet's contouring with an index finger. “Where would you _want_ to go?” Several rare emotions crossed Wayne's face.

“Home.”  
  
By now, Bruce's voice was a defiant whisper, and his eyes were glued to the floor. Tony swallowed. “Gotham City?” A slight shake of the head. “No.” It was then that Bruce gathered enough courage to look up and him square in the eye. “You... were my home.”

“So then...” Tony tried to keep his heavily beating heart under control; a trifle worried about the way it thumped hard against his ribcage all of a sudden. “... what is it you want? What you really want at the end of each and every day, B?” Without another word, the Gothamite stood up and dropped to his knees onto the carpet; at eye level with Tony in his wheelchair. “Let me come home to you again. Don't make me lose you for real.”

It was the first time he allowed him to see the tears in his eyes. Bruce then hung his head low and buried it in his lap. Stark's fingers soon went from stroking to becoming tangled within thick strands of hair as the Gothamite's broad shoulders were shaking. “Your home was always here.” When Bruce's tear-filled eyes looked up, they saw Tony's free hand touching his heart. “No matter how fucked up this thing might be these days.”

They wept in unison for a good five minutes; soundless but to the point of exhaustion. With no more tears to shed, Tony focused on the damp spot on his thighs where Bruce's face was still hidden. He was wiping the back of his hand under his nose, too embarrassed to look up. Clogged up, Tony tried to clear his throat once more. “I just need... I mean... just a little more time to... get my head back in order. That okay?”  
  
Wayne nodded with rarely displayed vehemence. “Course. Whatever you want and need, you'll get it. If it's in my power.” “And what if it's not? Not in your power I mean?” Hazel eyes blinked and looked up at him; red-rimmed but shining with determination. “Then I'll move heaven and earth to make it happen.” That time, Tony refused the new, prickling tears to fall, and amicably poked Bruce's temple instead. “Like a bat out of hell.”

Wayne's hand reached up to grasp his fingers. “Like a sinner before the gates of Heaven, I'll come crawling on back to you.“ Tony laugh-sniffled. “Since when do you know the lyrics to Meat Loaf?” Bruce eyed their intertwined hands. “Had enough time to listen to a lot of music.” Tony's gaze turned even softer. “As long as you're not gone when the morning comes.” On impulse, Bruce pressed a kiss on his knuckles.  
  
“Never again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... okay, no, I cannot leave this be. Time for one more mini-chapter... an epilogue of sorts!


	33. Chapter 33

_~epilogue~_

  
Malibu, 29th May 2015  


“Happy birthday.”  
The kiss they shared on the patio was timid and tentative.  
“To good health.”  
  
At that, Tony gave a small chuckle, combined with a tilt of his head. “Oh, that one for sure. Bye bye booze and cigarettes. The most excitement I'll get regarding that department in the foreseeable future is gonna be joining Pepper's Hatha yoga classes. Huzzah.” Bruce's gaze involuntarily flickered down to his chest. “Well...” Tony harrumphed out loud for him to hear. “Don't 'well' me there, Wayne. You know I'm right.”

“Are we back at that?”

“At what?”

“Wayne _and_ Stark?”

His right hand cautiously came up to brush a thumb against Tony's cheekbone. The shorter man tried for a cocky grin but failed upon the rare display of true emotion in his opposite's eyes. “We are back at... the beginning if you will. Like they say: We overcome and adapt, we don't just give up. Right?” Bruce's eyes possessed a certain glazed over look, which Tony blamed on the candle-lit atmosphere.

His hand then moved to cup the other man's cheek. “And what exactly are 'we'?” Tony nuzzled into the touch. “Still married. I for one will always prefer you with a hyphenated last name. Preferably mine.” It was then that Bruce Wayne got down on one knee and pulled a velvet box from the pocket of his jacket. Its contents elicited an audible gasp from his counterpart.

He waited until Tony cautiously held out his hand, spread his fingers, and let him slip both the Honda key ring and his wedding band on. Stark then put the single crutch he still had to rely on aside to reach into the collar of his shirt. After some tugging, he produced a familiar-looking chain. “Help me take it off? Goddamn fine motor skills still suck.” In an instant, Bruce leaned over to open the small lobster clasp for him.

“They'll come back, be patient.” As soon as he was done, he handed Tony the chain. With shaking fingers, Stark fumbled on some more, until the silver band around it tumbled into his palm. “Gonna make you a new paperclip one... for practice. Cardiac rehab's gonna be over in two weeks. I should be as nimble as a squirrel by then.” After he let him put the ring back on, Bruce regarded his old and new wedding band in silence.

“How about us taking a real honeymoon afterward?”  
  
The wind whipped at Tony's bangs as he looked up in surprise. “Are you serious?” Bruce gave a rather adorable shrug and tilt of the head combo. “We didn't really have one the first time. And now, with our free schedules and everything...” Stark tutted with fond exasperation and clasped his fingers around the handle of the crutch. “Somehow we're not doing this married thing in the right order, y'know?”  
  
When he held up his chin, Bruce took his invitation and leaned in.  
“Two wrongs make a right, remember?”  
Just before they kissed, Tony all but mumbled against Bruce's lips.  
  
“Never wrong to begin with, _you_ better remember that. Also... I've never been to Bora Bora before.”

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, for a while I thought these two would not get their happy ending... but now I'm glad they did. 
> 
> As always, many of you made this possible with your amazing support and comments - here's a shout out to:
> 
> Completelybatty, for telling me to get this sequel up in the first place  
> Batsocks, whose witty one-liners never fail to amuse me  
> black_queen, for sharing your thoughts with me in the most exuberant way  
> Hero, who made me tear up once I saw the fantastic artwork for the first part of this verse
> 
> Thank you so much; I'm humbled you invested so much of your time. It's a pleasure writing, with all of you around :D


End file.
